Kairos
by Aalon
Summary: Picking up in Season 5 one week after "Still", where Kate was standing on a live time bomb and going very AU from there. A significant element of science fiction drives this story about choices and the consequences of one decision.
1. Chapter 1

**Kairos – Chapter 1**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

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 **A/N:** Hi there. So, my 'baby girl' has just graduated from high school, and my wife and I find ourselves stuck in the 'college orientation/preparation/weeping-don't-leave-us phase. Some of you, I know, have been there. We have, too. But somehow for the youngest, it's just different. Anyway, I now have a little more time on my hands, so I have been putting this story into words as that time allows. I will be posting a lot of chapters at once, as most of this is done – I am still working on the ending right now. I will post the first 6 chapters initially, as Chapter 6 is a good breaking point.

Anyway, two things to consider before diving into this story:

First, on April 22, 2013, ABC broadcast an episode entitled "The Squab and the Quail", or as I liked to call it, "The Beginning of the End". It was the episode which – in my admittedly highly opinionated mind – once-and-for-all cemented the ever-present downward spiral of Caskett as we knew it/hoped for. Within a month, Kate was inexplicably headed to Washington, D.C. The next week, however, (April 29), ABC broadcast an episode entitled 'Still", where Kate Beckett found herself stuck on a bomb.

The two episodes were originally planned to be broadcast in reverse order, with "Still" coming first on April 22, and "The Squab and the Quail" coming a week later. Logically, that's how it is should have flowed; however, the tragic events at the Boston Marathon that year caused ABC to change the order in which they were broadcast.

For the purposes of this imaginary tale, please assume that the "Still" episode was broadcast first, on April 22, 2013, as was originally planned. That's an important distinction for this story, as this story begins that following week.

Second, the science inferred by this story is hypothetical, based upon currently postulated theories. Of course, the standard disclaimer is that this story is steeped not just in science, but more in science fiction, so it requires you to just 'go with me' on a few liberties I take here. I want this to feel realistic, and hope it does for you, without trying to prove or disprove current scientific (and licensed) thinking.

Okay, enough disclaimers. One final thought before we step off. "Kairos" is an ancient Greek word, which means 'the right or opportune moment; the supreme moment." The Greeks employed a rich, beautiful language that was far more descriptive than the English we use today. To that end, they had two words to describe or denote 'time'. One word, _Chronos_ , implied chronological time, sequential time, calendar / watch time if you will. That's the 'time' we all typically refer to. The second, _Kairos_ , implied a moment of indeterminate time, a period or season where something of great significance occurs. Knowing these two definitions, I hope you see both the consistency and the irony in the title of this story.

Okay, off we go . . .

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 _Time._

 _He's waiting in the wings._

 _He speaks of senseless things._

 _His script is you and me._

\- _David Bowie, from the album Aladdin Sane, 1973_

 _._

 ** _Friday Morning – April 26, 2013, 11:23 a.m., at a Manhattan bookstore_**

Richard Castle's left hand is beginning to ache. He is an hour and a half into this book signing for the latest Nikki Heat novel, _Heat in Time_. It's proving to be his most popular effort yet, as it – for the first time – introduces science fiction concepts into his typical sexy-thriller mysteries around the adventures of Jameson Rook and Nikki Heat.

The current book includes a plot line where the two heroes are chasing a man who claims he has traveled through time. The story line is – to Castle's adolescent joy – bringing in a new element of fan that more resembles a comic-con cosplay event than just a mystery writer book-signing. Still, he is used to typing with his fingers, not writing with his hands, and this new audience that has visited him today is not the typical fan girl crowd that he is used to. There are actually males here, who are far more interested in, and impressed by, the science fiction angles introduced in his recent book. Further, many of the women this morning have demonstrated a proclivity more toward the sciences than he has seen in the past.

And, of course, they all want to debate his time-traveling theories ad nauseam.

Still, he finds the conversations stimulating, and is enjoying the new-found diversity of readers of his most recent work. He signs his name one more time, before leaning back and closing his eyes, rubbing them vigorously for a moment of brief respite.

It is short-lived, of course.

"Mr. Castle?" he hears the female voice in front of him call out.

He opens what he now realizes to be very tired eyes, and glances upward toward the voice. The woman in front of him wears dark blue jeans and a soft, tan colored sweater. Her long red hair hangs downward in curled locks, and her green eyes are framed by a festive pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses. She is vaguely familiar, quite beautiful, and everything about her screams 'acadameian.'

"And you are?" He asks, smile intact, his hand reaching out to take the copy of the book from her hands so he can sign it.

"Impressed," she replies with a smile, first shaking his hand and then handing her book over to him.

"Such flattery will get you everything and everywhere," he chuckles, returning the smile. "Although I'd really enjoy knowing the source of what impressed you," he continues, glancing downward at the book now in his hands. He opens it up to the first page, ready to sign.

"I'm Dr. Sandra Windholm," she begins, offering a glance backward at the much shorter line behind her now. She doesn't want to intrude on his time, nor take advantage of theirs. "I'm a physicist here in the city."

"Okay, you're not my typical reader," Castle wonders aloud, smiling. "Although today's crowd isn't my normal crowd either," he continues, glancing around at the odd mixture of people here today.

"True, I normally don't read your works, I admit," she begins. "One of my graduate assistants recommended _Heat in Time_ , though. My team and I, we have been working on . . ."

She pauses, glancing backward again, before continuing, moving closer to Castle and lowering her voice.

"Let's just say that you actually were skirting very close to the truth in chapter six," she tells him, bringing a look of amused surprise to his face. Chapter six introduced the theories of time travel in his most recent novel.

"Do tell?" he asks, excitedly. "You have no idea how happy that makes me."

"Well, first of all, I was impressed that you didn't follow the traditional old-school science fiction thought process of time travel, which requires one to travel faster than the speed of light, "she tells him appreciatively. "Plausible, but –"

"Physically impossible," he finishes for her, drawing a smile of admiration.

"Very good, Mr. Castle," she responds. "Theoretically, according to Einstein, a signal could be sent back in time, but it would require immense levels of . . . no, scratch that, it would require an _infinite_ amount of power."

"But sending a signal and sending _a person_ are two different things," he replies, eyeing her evenly. She smiles again, further impressed.

"Star Trek movies about traveling back in time to capture humpback whales not-withstanding," she offers, and both share a quick laugh together. "Still," she continues, "if you did have this impossible, faster-than-light transport ship, you could journey – one way – into the future, spending, oh, twenty or thirty years traveling, but arrive centuries ahead in the future.

"That's why I picked wormholes," Castle says, trying hard – unsuccessfully – to hide the growing pride in his voice. While talking, his mind has flipped through the virtual rolodex in his head, and he has just placed the woman.

Dr. Sandra Windholm, MIT graduate from the early 1990's, specializing in quantum physics, and one of the prominent thought-leaders of the dynamics of space-time. He had seen her interviewed in a documentary a couple of years ago. Hence the familiar face when he first glanced at her. Now that he knows who she is, the praise she has offered has taken on a far deeper significance in his mind.

"Picking an Einstein-Rosen bridge was a better choice," she agrees. "And yes, I know the public knows the bridge by its more familiar term – wormholes."

"Even that was a reach," he smiles. "Some of your colleagues say that two ends of a wormhole connect different universes, while others opt for different points in the same universe, separated by time and space."

"You certainly did your research, Mr. Castle," she smiles in continued growing admiration. Perhaps she will read some of his other works as well.

"Author," he deadpans. "Research is an occupational hazard."

"That dangerous?" she chuckles.

"You'd be surprised," he concludes, his mind racing to umpteen different dangerous scenarios he and Detective Kate Beckett have encountered, which have served as inspiration. Shaking his head, he begins writing in her book.

"So I make this out to Dr. Windholm, to Sandra, to Mr. Spock?"

"Sandra is fine," she tells him, her smile broadening.

"Ok, I have to admit that I don't know many doctors who don't like being referred to in that terminology," he muses aloud, impressed with her humility.

"Bachelors, masters, Ph.D . . . all those years have to mean something," she chuckles, trying to see what he is writing.

He spends twenty, thirty seconds writing – it seems much longer to those in line who can only hope for the same personalized interaction the good doctor is receiving from their favorite author. He finishes with a conductor-like flourishing signature.

"Can I ask you a question, Dr. Sandra Windholm?" he asks pleasantly, emphasizing her doctoral title. She glances down, reading his note to her and chuckling, her cheeks reddening.

"Certainly," she replies, now looking up at the author again, struggling not to become one of the fawning fans she suspects he is used to.

"So . . . you said I was skirting with the truth," he continues. "What truth is that? Is time travel possible now?"

She turns and walks away, smiling, but turns back a few steps away.

"You're busy, Mr. Castle. I'll stick around here for the next half hour until you finish," she tells him. "I'll be up here next to the window. Some things are better understood shown than discussed."

For the next twenty minutes, Richard Castle is his polite best. He smiles. He laughs. He participates in selfies. He offers small talk and cute jokes. He is authentic, as always, but somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he is somewhere else. Specifically, some forty feet away at a small table along the window facing the street of this small bookstore. He continues to glance at Dr. Windholm, making sure she hasn't changed her mind and left. This is a conversation he is looking forward to.

It's been an eventful week, the past five or six days. Less than a week ago, their typical case at the precinct turned into anything but. Kate was stranded on a bomb at Archibald Fosse's city apartment. For a while, things looked dire, and then things got serious. Through it all, Castle stayed with his muse and lover, and in the end – both were rewarded for his loyalty.

They are public now, in the most important area – at work, with the seeming blessings of one Captain Victoria Gates.

That jolt of excitement – and relief – has energized their relationship, which has definitely elevated itself in the past few days. Something as simple as being able to hold hands at work has changed their ever-fragile dynamic in a good way. Clearly the universe has smiled on them, finally bestowing its blessings on their relationship.

Speaking of his muse, he glances at the front door, just checking to see if Kate is going to show. They haven't had a case for days, and she had promised to swing by if at all possible.

He brings himself back to the present, and notices that the line is now gone.

"I think that's it, Mr. Castle," Helen tells him. Helen Rollins, the owner of the small establishment, cannot contain her excitement at the number of people who have crowded her store, and the not insignificant revenue the author has just generated for her.

"Always a pleasure, Helen," he tells her, standing and stretching tired and tight muscles that have stagnated over the past two hours. "Let me know when you want to do this again," he offers, as he glances at his watch. It's noon. He takes his cell phone out, as his eyes find Dr. Windholm, still at the table. Smiling, he sends a text to Kate.

 _CASTLE: Done. But talking with an interesting party. Lunch?_

Nodding his head, satisfied, he palms his phone in his hand, and moves toward the good doctor.

"I'm glad you are still here," he begins, as he pulls a chair out to sit across from her, staring out the window. She begins to rise up to meet him.

"No, no, please stay seated," he chides her. "Thanks for sticking around," he tells her as he takes his seat.

"So," she tells him as she glances at her watch. "I have a few minutes, and it sounds like you have questions." Her smile is honest and infectious.

"Just one," he corrects her, and notices her chuckle. "I already asked it."

"That's a difficult question to answer, Mr. Castle," she begins.

"Why do I think this is more of a dodge?" he asks, eyebrows raised playfully.

"Touche," she gives him, with a nod of the head. He's asked the question a half hour ago, and she is confident that she can adequately answer the question to his satisfaction without giving away confidential and proprietary trade secrets.

"You asked if time travel is possible," she begins. "It's not quite as simple as you think, even though you were very, very close," she reminds him. "But first – let me ask you a question. Why is this answer so important to you? I mean, you've already written the book, and it's a very plausible scenario you painted very eloquently. What is driving this thirst for more knowledge?"

"Writer's curiosity," he tells her, but the rising inflection of his voice tells her it is more a question than a statement. She replies with raised eyebrows of her own.

"Okay, cards on the table," he tells her, running a hand through his hair. He struggles for words, starting and stopping over the next few seconds.

"Okay, okay," she finally acquiesces. "You have your own reasons, I'm sure. Let me answer your question. Time travel is possible. But not the way you are thinking about it."

His eyes widening, he leans in closer as if to will her to speak faster.

"How so?" he asks, his voice low.

"It isn't really time travel. The more accurate term is traveling through wormholes. Wormholes can be used as ramps to other timelines."

"Hey Doc," he smiles. "That sounds an awful lot like time travel to me."

"It sounds like it, I admit," she replies. "But there is no such thing as a time traveling ship. There is no object you buckle yourself into, and take off. No fanned chariot, no phone booth," she chuckles, drawing a reciprocal chuckle from Castle at her knowledge of pop culture.

"There is no time-traveling container. _You_ don't actually go anywhere. Instead, you are literally broken down into digital data elements, and that is what is sent through the wormhole. Not you. Once that data gets to the other side, then you are rebuilt."

"Wha . . . What?" he asks incredulously, his head leaning back and eyes continuing to widen to almost comical levels.

"It isn't you that travels through time, Mr. Castle," she tells him. "It is a digital representation of you."

She takes out her small notebook that is never far away from her, and opens to a blank page toward the back of the notepad. She draws two circles, one of either side of the page.

"Think of a cell phone call, or a fax machine transmission," she tells him, as she begins to fill in the space along a straight line between the two circles with ones and zeroes, depicting a digital transmission.

"There is so much we absolutely take for granted today that, if you actually slow down and stop for a minute to consider what is really happening . . ." she says, her words dying off as she shakes her head.

"If you told someone in 1940 or 1950, if you told someone that they would be able to talk into a small, untethered device that sends your voice – or even a video of your face – across the air to another recipient device . . . well they'd tell you that you've been watching too much Dick Tracy."

Both laugh at the analogy, recalling the old science fiction cartoon serial from newspapers.

"Yet today, we take such fantasy for granted. Think about it for a moment, Mr. Castle," she continues. "Today, we can take your voice, your face, your surroundings, and digitize them – turn them into ones and zeroes – and send them through thin air, to a tower or into space itself and re-route them to another destination. And this all occurs so fast, so rapidly that to the human senses, it appears to be instantaneous. But that's not all, Mr. Castle."

She glances out the window, upward to the skies as she smiles.

"All of those ones and zeroes don't arrive back on the other end in the same sequence that they left. So the technology not only takes your voice and breaks it down into ones and zeroes and sends it off into space, it has to re-sequence all those ones and zeroes back into their original order, and then convert them back into analog waves that your ears hear and your brain understands. And all of this occurs within infinitesimal amounts of time so that it appears that there is absolutely no delay at all."

He nods his head appreciatively.

"You know, I have to admit that I've never really thought about it that way," he muses aloud.

"And more, when it arrives to your ears, it sounds _exactly_ like the person's voice," she continues. "For a typical phone conversation, what was once your voice has been torn down into nothing more than millions of numbers, sent into outer space, and then rebuilt on my device – and it sounds exactly like your voice. Exactly! It's almost miraculous. Today we call this science. Sixty years ago, this was the stuff of pure science _fiction_."

She allows Castle a few additional seconds to process what she has just said, before she drops the hammer.

A cell phone doesn't send your voice to another person, Mr. Castle. It sends a digital representation of your voice to that other person. It is a _copy_ of your voice."

"My God," he exclaims in a whisper, as the concept she is sharing with him finally takes shape in his mind.

"Time travel is possible, Mr. Castle," she tells him, now leaning back in her seat, smiling. "We have prototypes. We have done it. But it isn't _you_ that goes to a specific destination in the past. It is a copy of you. We tear you down, and send a copy of you."

"Like a phone call," he comments, his voice shaking, still a whisper.

"More like a fax machine, actually," she corrects, "but now you have the concept."

She draws his attention back to her notebook, as she cleanly rips the page out of the book. She points to the two circles and the line of ones and zeroes between them.

"We turn you into digital data," she tells him, and then bends the paper in half, so that the circles are almost touching.

"The wormhole brings the two points closer together, shortening the distance between the two points significantly," she tells him. Then, with a smile that breaks into a sweet chuckle of laughter, she signs her name – title included – to the edge of the paper and hands it to him. He glances down at the autographed diagram, knowing this is something he will keep forever. His eyes are drawn to her name.

 _Dr. Sandra Windholm, CEO, Kronologix_

"And that, Mr. Castle, is time travel," she tells him as she watches him fold the paper and put it into his wallet for safekeeping.

"Feel free to reach out to me if you want to learn more," she tells him, and then she stands, drops her business card on the table, and gives him a final smile and walks to the front door of the bookstore, offers a wave, and is gone.

For a moment, Richard Castle sits, stunned – his mind racing about with possibilities. Because he is a writer, his mind often lives in a fictional world. All too often, that fictional world collides with reality. As a writer, he bounces many ideas off Kate Beckett, often when she doesn't realize he is considering plot options and developments. But one topic they have often discussed – especially in the past few months as he finished this most recent book – has been the idea of time travel. They laugh about it, they joke about it, and she is far from a believer that it is even remotely possible. But they both know exactly what they would do, what event they would move heaven and hell to change, if they had the impossible chance to change the past.

Unbeknownst to Dr. Sandra Windholm, she has opened a can of worms – no pun intended – that will not be easily closed.

Another minute passes before he stands himself, his fingers excitedly racing across his cell phone, typing a frantic message to Kate Beckett.


	2. Chapter 2

**Kairos – Chapter 2**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

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 **A/N:** Still here? Great! By now, I think you can see where this story is headed. Not my usual Castle story, I admit, but being a long-time comic book fan, and an avid sci-fi enthusiast, I've often considered how to introduce a little science into our fictional tales of Richard Castle. I hope you enjoy where we go with this one.

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 ** _Friday Afternoon – April 26, 2013, 1:17 p.m., at the 12_** ** _th_** ** _Precinct in New York City_**

Richard Castle sits in 'his' chair at the 12th Precinct, across from Detective Kate Beckett. Kate is finishing up paperwork for a quick case that was opened – and closed – this morning. Castle is fidgeting, as his left leg bounces up and down rapidly while his fingers drum aimlessly, incessantly atop his knees. Every couple of minutes, Kate looks up, knowing that the little nine-year old boy in him is just bursting with anticipation.

Another minute passes before she closes the file, and backs away from her desk, still seated.

"Okay Castle," she begins, fighting back a smile that threatens to burst into laughter. "What has you so hot and bothered?"

"A certain redhead," he offers jokingly. "And I'm not talking about my daughter."

That draws a raised eyebrow from the detective, much to Castle's delight. She's been toying with him for the past five minutes, elongating her time with the paperwork. He's followed her for years – he knows when she is mentally doodling and when she is really working.

"Okay, I probably deserved that," she smiles warmly, clearly amused. "But seriously, what has you –"

"You will not believe this," he interrupts. "You are so not going to believe this. You're going to love it, trust me. Remember when we . . . Oh you are so not going to –"

"Castle!" she exclaims, raising her voice a bit.

"Okay, okay," he tells her, now standing and pacing around her desk like a large cat on the prowl. But he's not talking. He's thinking. He's mouthing words with his mouth, but no sound is coming out.

"Castle!" she admonishes again, this time louder.

"The book signing," he begins, then stops suddenly. He glances around at the not-so-empty bullpen, filled with officers and detectives who are returning from lunch. Although the precinct has been accepting of him, he knows that in some quarters he is considered something of a nut job.

Competent, yes.

Brave, without question.

But a still nut job.

No, there's no need to give them more water cooler fodder. He motions Kate to the conference room. When Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan both stand expectantly, Castle hesitates for an instant before waving to both that they should follow them. The two detectives jump up excitedly, eager to do something other than tedious paperwork.

The four enter the conference room, and Ryan closes the door behind them.

"What's up?" Esposito asks, his eyes searching between Castle and Beckett.

"Castle was just getting to that," Kate tells them.

"I think you'd better sit down for this," Castle tells them, as he continues to pace throughout the room, as he was outside in the bullpen, unable to contain his excitement. "All of you."

The trio complies without thinking, knowing that Castle – the author – has a tendency to tell stories. It's how he processes things. There is no telling how long this story will be.

"This morning I had a book signing for _Heat in Time_ down at –"

"Dumb title," Esposito muses aloud. "Not your best work."

An incredulous Castle stares, jaw dropped, at his friend, who quickly backpedals.

"I don't mean the story itself, Castle," Esposito corrects himself. "I mean just the title. Normally you stick with two words, rolls off the tip of your tongue, kind of –"

"I think he gets the message, bro," Kevin interrupts, drawing a grateful yet aggravated look from his partner.

"Go on, Castle," Ryan encourages.

Castle smirks, then turns his attention to the white board on the wall in the conference room, where he draws two large circles, about three feet away from each other on the board.

"At the book signing, I encountered a very, very interesting fan," he begins, but now it is Kate's turn to interrupt.

"Is this the red-head who had you so excited?" she asks.

"Absolutely," he tells her, then immediately sees the error he has made. Esposito and Ryan exchange a chuckle, always amused at how a man so prolific with words can let errant ones get himself into trouble so often, and so easily.

"No, no, not in that way," he quickly corrects himself, which only gets him an eye roll from a less-than-amused Kate.

"Oh come on, Kate, I was willing to blow up with you, for crying out loud," he almost pleads. "That's got to count for something."

"Playing that card already, Castle?" she smirks. "Less than a week old and you give up such a valuable chip so soon."

Ryan and Esposito smile, offering each other a small fist bump, knowing that Kate has – once again – all too easily played their friend.

"Forget it," Castle says suddenly, turning his attention back to the white board, surprising everyone.

"This morning, I met a new fan of mine. A Dr. Sandra Windholm." He waits for any acknowledgement of recognition from the three. Seeing none, he shakes his head, continuing.

"Don't any of you follow science at all?" he mutters just loud enough for them to hear. "She is a world-renown physicist, who specializes in space-time continuum research and discoveries. If you'd watch something other than reality TV and sitcoms, you might have seen her a few times on television," he continues, jabbing them for emphasis.

"Nothing as good as shark week," Esposito mutters, smiling, gaining him a smirk from Castle, who ignores the parry and continues.

"Anyway, she wanted me to sign her copy of _Heat in Time_ , which I happily did. And I got the better end of this exchange. Turns out she told me that the time traveling ideas I postulated in the book weren't all that far off," he tells them, sticking a tongue out at Kate, who wasn't too impressed with his scientific hypothesis as he had laid it out for her months ago. It has been an endless source of debate between the two of them.

"Feel better?" she asks, with a sarcastic smirk.

"Getting there," he smirks in return.

"Back to the important stuff," he continues, ignoring the amused looks on Esposito and Beckett's faces. Kevin Ryan, however, looks at his writer friend quizzically. He senses where Castle might be going with all of this. Castle has always been excited over the supernatural or science fiction possibilities. Even the smallest odds that a zombie, or vampire or alien could be involved in a case is something that brings joy to the novelist.

And superheroes? A joy bath for certain.

But more than that, not only does he take great satisfaction from these concepts, his mind actually _allows for the existence_ of such mythical entities. And because of that allowance, the notion of time travel – apparently his current excitement item for today – is something that Ryan realizes that Castle considers a real possibility. One worth embracing.

And, he fears, one worth experiencing. There is no in between with Richard Castle.

"What are you thinking Castle?" he asks.

"What if she is right, Kevin?" Castle asks in return. "What if it is possible?"

"What? Time travel?" Kate asks, unable to disguise the surprise and disbelief in her voice. Castle glances at her, shaking his head.

"The one person in the room who could benefit the most from time travel is the one who totally disregards the possibility," he says softly. "Yes, time travel," he replies.

"It's not possible," Ryan counters.

"A cop says it's not possible, while a scientist with a Ph. D in the field says it is quite possible," Castle replies. "Guess which one I choose to believe."

Seeing the hurt look on Ryan's face, Castle softens his tone.

"Forgive me, my friend," Castle begins. "Each of us has our own built-in bias as to why time travel is impossible. But I just listened to a fairly impassioned pitch by someone far more qualified than you or I that screams otherwise."

"What do you mean, Castle?" Esposito asks, now a bit more interested. Kate finds a chair at the table, and drops into it. She doesn't want to buy into the myth. She has spent half of her life steeling herself against further heartbreak.

"Dr. Windholm explained to me how time travel is possible," he explains.

"Castle," Kate intones.

"Kate," he replies, allowing her time to process this.

"Castle, it's not possible," she says, shaking her head, now standing and moving towards the door, walking backwards.

"You keep saying that," Castle allows softly. "But what if you're wrong? What if you're wrong and the highly qualified quantum physicist is right?"

A silences descends on the room for the next few seconds, as three sets of eyes eventually fall upon the retreating form backing towards the door.

"Castle," Esposito cautions, now fully engaged in the conversation. "This isn't some hypothetical conversation, is it? This isn't just a 'hey, time travel is real' and then we all just drop the conversation, is it?"

"You know what this would do for her, don't you, Javier," Castle tells him, speaking softly while his eyes never leave those of the woman he loves. It is not a question. It is a statement of fact.

"To give her back her mother," he continues, still glancing at Kate. "To give her back her family."

"No, Rick," Kate tells him, still backing away, but more slowly now.

"Suppose you are right, Castle," Kevin offers, trying to change tactics. "Changing one element of history has repercussions, Castle. You change one thing – and you have no idea what else changes."

"Ripples," Esposito adds, nodding his head.

"If Dr. Windholm is right," Castle replies, ignoring the nay-saying and rationalizations, "and I have no reason to doubt her – then, all of you know what this could mean! If we could save Johanna's life, then yes, you're darn right. Kate's life is different. It's better. She's not Don Quixote flailing at windmills, throwing her life away over William Bracken."

He glances again at a still quiet Kate, wondering if he has finally overstepped. Surprisingly, he hasn't. Even more surprising – it is Kate who finally joins the discussion.

"But William Bracken would still exist – and probably still be evil."

"So what!" Castle admonishes, waving a hand as if dismissing a fly. "There will always be William Brackens in the world. But if we can have a William Bracken who didn't kill Johanna Beckett . . . come on, Kate! You have to see the beauty in this," Castle continues, a new urging in his voice as he draws ones and zeroes between the two circles on the board, duplicating the drawing that the doctor has left with him.

"Look Castle, if it were possible, you know –"

"It _is_ possible," he exclaims, now clearly frustrated with the trio. Somehow he should have expected this, but he really thought they would react differently.

He thought _she_ would react differently.

"It _is_ possible," he repeats. "How often do we get a chance to change history, for crying out loud?! And in a way that benefits us."

He glances at Kate again.

"That benefits _you_ ," he tells her. He turns to the white board.

"It's like a cell phone call," he begins. "According to Dr. Windholm, there is no time machine, or time traveling ship or chariot or container . . . dammit," he chuckles to himself before continuing. "Instead, think of how you talk into a cell phone, and your voice is converted into a bunch of ones and zeroes –"

"Data," Kate offers softly. He smiles, sensing she could be warming up to this.

"Exactly, babe," he praises her. "Data. Data that is sent through thin air to another device – another cell phone. The way she explained it, time travel is the same way."

"There is nothing about what you just said that sounds painless, bro," Esposito warns. "If this is true, of course."

"But what else could change?" Kevin asks, still trying to get Castle to consider unforeseen ramifications. He knows enough about his friend to realize that if there is a way to do this, then Castle will find it, consequences be damned. And he will probably drag Beckett down the rabbit hole with him. In this case – literally.

"What about the grandfather paradox?" Kevin asks, but Castle is focused now completely on Kate. He can tell she is considering this. She wants to do this, but she is afraid to even consider the possibilities. She just needs to be talked into this. Her quivering lips and agitated fingers that cannot stop fiddling give her away.

"Ah, so you know a little more about the topic than you care to admit," a smirking Castle replies to Detective Ryan. "It doesn't matter. The paradox doesn't hold up here."

Castle turns away from the group, and draws a stick man inside the circle to the right. He writes a name under the circle.

Rick.

"Suppose Rick here," he starts, pointing at the circle on the right, "suppose he goes back in time to the year 1940. He meets his grandfather there," he tells them, drawing another stick figure, this time inside the left circle. He puts a beard on the left stick man, drawing nervous laughter from the group.

 _"That's good,"_ he thinks. _"Just relax into this."_

"Our little time traveling Rick goes back in time and kills his grandfather before his grandfather has a chance to meet his grandmother," Castle continues, drawing a big 'X' through the old man stick figure in the left circle. As a result of his action, his grandmother never gives birth to his father. Now, because of this, our time traveler was never born. But if he was never board, then he is unable to travel through time and kill his grandfather, which means the traveler would be born after all. And so on."

"Exactly!" Ryan exclaims triumphantly.

"None of that matters, though," Castle tells him, bursting the air from his bubble with another dismissive wave of the hand. "We aren't going back to kill anyone."

"We aren't going back _at all_ , Castle," Kate argues. It's too much. It's too promising. But it will turn out like a hundred of Castle's theories before. Funny, exciting.

And pure fancy.

"Stay with me, Kate," he tells her, and then stops in his tracks. "We aren't going back to kill anyone. One letter. That's it," he exults, the plan that has been percolating in his mind finally bubbling over.

"We intercept one simple letter. We make sure it never reaches its destination."

"Castle," Kate says, shaking her head. He's losing her.

"Meet with her, Kate," he suddenly says to the woman he has chased and cherished, and often hurt. "One meeting, one hour," he says, pulling the business card from his inside coat pocket.

"Hear _her_ out, not me, Kate," he finishes. "Let her explain it to you. Let her _show_ you."

" _Show_ her?!" Esposito almost screams out, beating Kate to the punch. "What do you mean let her _show_ –"

"She has a prototype," Castle says softly, placing the writing marker on the ledge attached to the white board.

"This isn't hypothetical. They've done this before."


	3. Chapter 3

**Kairos – Chapter 3**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine J

.

 ** _Friday Afternoon – April 26, 2013, 4:25 p.m., at a non-descript warehouse in South Brooklyn_**

.

The view of the lower bay separating lower Brooklyn and Staten Island opens up gently outside the large fourth floor wall-to-ceiling window, allowing the full afternoon sunlight to bathe the room in a yellowish-orange tint. It's a beautiful, cloudless day outside, quiet and serene in the distance - which lies in stark opposition to the excited tension that hangs in the air inside the large room. They are inside an enormous, four-story warehouse on the southwestern part of Brooklyn.

Kate Beckett sits at the small coffee table, in the undersized chair provided there. Castle is standing next to the large window, enjoying the view. Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan stayed behind at the precinct, and neither were too happy about that development. In the end, however, this – whatever 'this' turns out to be – has to be a decision made by Kate.

If there is a decision to be made.

Which they will know shortly, as Kate rises while Castle turns, as both hear the door open. In walks a very amused Dr. Sandra Windholm.

"Dr. Windholm," Castle begins, quickly traversing the space between them to offer his hand, as Kate follows closely behind.

"While I can't say I am surprised, Mr. Castle," she smiles warmly, shaking his hand and then Kate's hand as well. "I have to say that I figured you would at least sleep on what we discussed before reaching back out to me."

"You clearly don't know him very well," Kate remarks amiably. "Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD."

"His muse, I presume," Dr. Windholm smiles, and then notes the quick look of derision on Kate's face. Clearly the woman doesn't appreciate that particular tag.

"There is nothing wrong with being one's inspiration, Detective Beckett," Dr. Windholm continues as she eyes the detective. "Especially when that inspiration leads to such joy for so many. You would be surprised at the results of inspiration here in this building."

"Now you're just giving him an even bigger head," Kate offers with a roll of the eyes. "Castle told me about his conversation with you," Kate continues. "He mentioned that –"

"Castle?" the doctor asks, momentarily confused.

Kate stops for a moment, confused herself.

"Yes, Castle, Richard Castle, the man standing right –"

"I know who Richard Castle is, Detective," the doctor tells her defensively. "I just thought . . . well, I was under the impression that the two of you were . . . together?"

"We are," Kate and Castle both reply together.

"Yet you are on . . . you're on a last name basis?" the doctor asks. The couple exchange glances that are both confused and bemused at the same time. It isn't something they are called on very often, but given the deep intimacy between the two, it is certainly an interesting observation.

"Never mind," Dr. Windholm counters, eager to move on. It is late this afternoon, yes, but she still has a few hours in front of her before she heads home this evening.

"I assume you have more questions, Mr. Castle. How can I help you?"

"I do," Castle replies. "We both do."

"And are these questions steeped in a desire for academic knowledge, or are there more . . . personal motivations at play here?"

"A little of both," Kate replies, interrupting. The doctor simply nods here head, impressed that neither tries to insult her.

"Dr. Windholm," Castle begins, trying to steer the conversation away from their motivations, "Kate found the notion that time travel could be possible to be . . . well, she isn't a believer, let's leave it at that. I'm hoping that you can . . . persuade her otherwise."

The doctor eyes the couple for a moment, trying to decide which motivation is more powerful for the two. Research, which makes sense for a writer who may be considering a more substantive move towards science fiction . . . or something far more personal, which she senses would be the detective's motivation. The one thing that is clear to her is that Richard Castle is very interested in her, and her research. As a privately funded think-tank organization, funding is always important. Yes, the good doctor found Castle's most recent novel entertaining – but she, too, has her own motivations for wanting a relationship with the novelist.

And as she learned over a decade ago – every meeting is an opportunity for fund-raising.

"Where would you like me to start?" she asks the couple, glancing back and forth between both of them.

"Why did you tell Castle that time travel is real?" Kate asks, getting right to the topic.

"Because it is," Dr. Windholm states matter-of-factly. For a few seconds, there is quiet in the room as Kate eyes the doctor, expectantly. When she offers nothing more, Kate responds.

"That's it?" Kate asks. "That's all you have?"

"I have answered your question, Detective," Dr. Windholm explains. "Your . . . friend here is the author, and is therefore, far more verbose. I'm a scientist. If you ask me a yes or no question, you are going to get the appropriate answer – unfiltered and less filling," she jokes. Castle is amused. Kate is not.

"Dr. Windholm," Castle begins, "do you mind explaining why – as you did with me – you hold the position you do." He gives Kate's hand a supportive squeeze. Getting her here was difficult. He doesn't need this to be an antagonistic encounter.

"Certainly," the doctor replies, running a hand through her red locks as she walks toward a white board in the large room. She picks up a blue marker, and draws two circles.

"Circles again," Kate muses under her breath. She gets another hand squeeze, this one a bit more aggressive.

"What we do here at Kronologix," Windholm begins, her eyes focused on Castle, "started with the desire to move one object from one place to another."

Castle's eyes widen, matching Beckett's.

"Teleportation?" Castle asks, now getting more excited about this place. His thoughts take him back to his favorite sci-fi television series and movies.

"Trans-portation is the more accurate term," Dr. Windholm corrects him, chuckling at the frown she draws from the writer. "I mentioned to you that there is no miracle ship, no miracle transport rocket or jet or car. _Back to the Future_ was a great movie, but totally unrealistic. So we have to use real science if we want to accomplish time travel. And it starts with being able to send a person – _a person_ – from one point to another. Not a person _in a car_ , or in a booth, or in a ship of some kind. Just a person."

She draws a series of ones and zeroes between the two circles, as she did with Castle earlier at the bookstore.

"When we first started, all those years ago . . . back in 2004 . . . I had recently completed my Ph. D studies and started this institution here," she tells them, waving to the room around them.

"The first thing we knew we had to figure out was how to send a body through a pinhole," she continues. "We . . ."

She stops in mid-sentence, and walks to the large desk next to the windows. "Excuse me," she tells the couple as she punches a button on the desk phone there. Seconds later, a voice is heard from the other end.

"Yes Doctor Windholm," the voice says. Suddenly, Castle and Kate realize that this large room – that they thought was a conference room, is – in fact – the good doctor's office."

"Joyce, the two non-disclosure agreements that my guests were provided . . . they are signed and notarized, correct?"

"Yes, doctor, per procedure," Joyce tells her.

"Thank you, Joyce," Windholm replies, punching the button to hang the call up. She approaches the couple again who have stood back at the white board.

"Occupational hazard," she says simply. "We are less than a year away from our IPO. You can imagine that there is . . . a great deal of knowledge here that others would pay dearly for."

"I didn't realize you were going public," Castle muses aloud.

"Not the best kept secret, but we've done a decent job," she tells him. "You're not in the industry, so it doesn't surprise me that you didn't know."

Turning to Kate, she points back to the white board, continuing her mini-lecture to the couple.

"As I was saying, the first thing we had to figure out was how to send a human body through the tiniest of openings."

"Sounds painful," Kate remarks, recalling Javier Esposito's comments from earlier this afternoon.

"I'm stuck on the IPO," Castle admits, risking a glare from the doctor. "From what you explained to me, if you can move someone from one point to another – in space or time – then I would think the more lucrative financial opportunity would be in teleportation . . . I'm sorry, in trans-poration. Moving someone from one side of the world to the other, in an instant," he says with emphasis, snapping his fingers.

"Short-term, yes, Mr. Castle," she agrees. "But transporting a person from point A to point B will – someday soon – become a commodity. It may occur in your lifetime, or that of your children, or your children's children. But that is a given. However, long-term, transporting a person from _time_ point A to _time_ point B – well, that's an entirely different journey altogether."

"But –"

"Think about the possibilities, Detective," Windholm says, holding up a finger to interrupt Kate. "Think of all of the historical events that human beings have long wished they could have seen in person. Was there really a city of Atlantis? And if so, what happened? The great San Francisco earthquake. The assassination of JFK. And then things get really serious. Custer's last stand. The volcanic eruption at Krakatoa. The parting of the Red Sea. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. The crucifixion of Christ. Events that have been visible to us only in artwork or ancient black and white photographs, as in the case of the San Francisco earthquake. Imagine sending a person back to capture significant unseen events on camera. Now put this video experience in the classroom, in churches, in businesses."

She chuckles as she sees a dual set of jaws drop in front of her, knowing that only now are her guests considering the ramifications.

"The average person says they would like to go back into time to change something crucial in their lifetime," she continues. "An appropriate thought process, for certain. But changing the past is far too dangerous. One simple change – you never know the result of that one stone thrown into the water. Never. The ripples are far too dangerous to deal with."

"So . . . if you are in this to make money," Kate begins, "assuming all of this works in the first place –"

"It does," counters Windholm.

"Assuming it works," Kate continues, undaunted, "then how would you send someone back in time and ensure they don't change anything."

"Any time journey must be for observation purposes only," Windholm explains. "For that reason, we would never send anyone back alone. All journeys must be supervised. Monitored. Those are the rules, the procedures we have implemented."

"You're serious?" Kate exclaims, wondering just how long or far this ruse can go. "You have actually sent someone back in time." The mocking nature of Kate's voice is clear to all three in the room.

"Dr. Windholm," Castle interjects, "I was interested in your institution here after I met you this afternoon, simply for entertainment and altruistic reasons . . . okay more entertainment, I admit. But now that I know you are going public . . . well insider information doesn't allow me to . . ."

"Unless I asked you for money, of course," Windholm interrupts, smiling.

"Are you asking for money," Kate asks.

"Not yet," Castle replies for the doctor, who nods her head appreciatively at the author. Yeah, it was a good move – calculated, yes – but a good move nonetheless to visit the bookstore this morning.

"Are we ready to continue?" Windholm asks. When Castle nods his head, she continues.

"So – as we have said, the first thing we had to figure out was how to send a human body through a very small opening." She points at the board.

"That meant converting a human body to a digital representation," she says, underlining the ones and zeroes. That's the first golden egg here. Understanding how to break down – and rebuild – a human body."

She watches the stunned look on her guests, smiling. She is used to this reaction. Now it's time to drop the other shoe. Castle is already ahead of her.

"And the second golden egg?" he asks.

"Opening and closing a wormhole at specific points on the space-time continuum."

"That's impossible," Castle dismisses.

"No, Mr. Castle," she chuckles. "That is Kronologix. Follow me."

She heads to the elevator in the office, motioning for them to follow her. The only sound heard is the clicking of the doctor's heels on the wooden floor as both Castle and Kate fall in line behind her, taking the left side of the elevator car as the doors close. The elevator car starts moving – downward – and Castle instinctively looks upward as the numbers fly by.

3.

2.

1.

B1

B2

B3

"Wow," Kate exhales, staring at the numbers with Castle. "Who would have thought . . ."

The car continues downward until the number finally stops at B7 before it stops, and the doors open out into a large expansive room.

"So you're telling me we are actually seven floors below street level now?" Castle asks.

"Yes, Mr. Castle," Windholm replies. "We do like our secrets."

"Apparently," he nods in agreement as the doors open. Castle takes one step and then is struck motionless. Dr. Windholm only smiles. She is used to this reaction also.

The room opens out to something the size of two football fields. The walls of the room are the actual rock structures of the earth almost ninety feet below the street surface. The floor appears to be metal in nature, and the artificial lighting is bright. The large structure is bustling with activity, as there appears to be some fifty to sixty people at work down here.

"Okay, I am officially amazed," Kate tells her.

 _"Something is happening here,"_ Kate thinks to herself. _"Just the finances necessary to drill down this deep, and build this structure . . . that's not cheap . . . the money to do this isn't thrown away cheaply."_

"This way," Windholm tells them, and as they again fall in line, she begins her pitch in earnest. This has quickly morphed from simply an 'interesting discussion' to a fund-raising opportunity for the CEO.

"The secret, Mr. Castle, Detective Beckett, is understanding that a wormhole is simply a tunnel between two points in space. But we define space as 'space time'. Think of the two circles I drew for you upstairs. Imagine them on a flat plane axis. Circle A is one point in space time while Circle B is another. Circle B occurs after Circle A. They are on the same axis. Now, bend that plane, that axis – remember the piece of paper I gave to you earlier, Mr. Castle?"

"Yes," he replies quickly, patting his back pocket where his wallet is, listening and taking in the mammoth structure.

"Bend that piece of paper, so that the two circles are no longer far apart," Dr. Windholm continues. "Now they are close – almost touching, in fact. A wormhole is the tunnel between those two almost-touching circles. It is very tiny. And it is highly unstable. Our work here creates these wormholes, stabilizes them, deconstructs a traveler, sends him through the wormhole, and then reconstructs them."

"What?" Kate replies, trying to wrap her mind around what she is seeing and hearing. They walk to a large platform that is roughly fifty feet by fifty feet, and raised about four feet high. They walk up four large steps to the platform, still following the doctor.

"The key to what we do is traveling – transporting – through wormholes," Windholm continues as she takes them to a large metal table. "And as I mentioned to you, Mr. Castle, it isn't _you_ that actually goes through. We don't try and squeeze a person through a miniature doorway or anything so visually elegant. The original plan was to take a person, and that person is literally broken down into digital data elements – think about a fax machine – and sent through. Then rebuilt."

"But if what you are saying is true, then –"

"It isn't you, Detective Beckett," Windholm interrupts. "It is _a copy_ of you that is identical in virtually every way."

She quickly turns to Castle, facing the author as she reaches down into a metal basket, pulling out a large, red toy mega block, and puts it on the metal table.

"Now you're an author, Mr. Castle," she continues, now walking to a computer keyboard. "Notice the word I used. 'Virtually'."

"Which means 'nearly' or 'almost'," Castle notes aloud.

"Exactly," the doctor replies while punching in commands. "It is a copy that is almost identical. The imperfections are barely noticeable. But it is a copy. And the more you travel in this fashion . . ."

She lets the statement hang out there before Kate fills in the blanks.

"You are making copies of copies," Kate realizes, nodding her head.

"Very good, Detective," Dr. Windholm concurs. "The first time we sent someone through, we made a copy of him. The second time –"

"You _really_ have sent someone through?"

Dr. Windholm laughs at the simultaneous question from the couple, getting her first real glimpse of the Caskett dynamic that those who know them have come to expect – and anticipate.

"Yes, we have sent a couple of fellow scientists and assistants through," she admits. "Initially, we encountered certain difficulties."

"What kind of difficulties?" Castle asks, the hair on the back of his neck now standing at attention. Yeah, this sounded too good to be true.

"Reconstructing people is an 'almost' process," she repeats. "The imperfections manifested themselves with joint pain, with skeletal imperfections, cancers."

"My God," Kate gasps, putting it together now.

"The scanning process is not flawless," Windholm tells them. "It is probably 99.9 percent accurate. But that one tenth of a percent is a bitch, I have to admit. But suffice to say, those problems sent us back to the drawing board for a brief period of time. We believe we are close to solving that issue. But until then . . ."

"That's why the IPO is a year away," Castle realizes out loud.

The doctor nods her head, then grows silent again, allowing her guest to process this. After half a minute, she sees they are now putting it together. They are just now realizing what she is saying. They are just realizing what she means when she says 'copies'.

"We create a duplicate," she tells them.

"Cloning?" Castle asks, a frown forming on his face.

"No," she replies, noticing his reaction. "We don't refer to it as cloning, because of your reaction right there. Besides, a clone is a recreation of yours, but it does not have your memories. What we do – oh Mr. Castle, it is far beyond cloning. We create a duplicate of you – one that has your memories, your dreams, your aspirations. It is you in every way."

"Except for the imperfections after you have been . . ."

"Reconstructed, Detective," the doctor says, completing Kate's sentence. "The problem remains – each time a person is scanned and deconstructed and reconstructed, we are making a copy. And the scanning process has minute effects on the human body, as I mentioned. But the concern remains, even after we fix this – the concern is that too many scans will cause problems with the host."

"The host?" Castle asks.

"That sounds a little freaky," Beckett adds.

"Science usually is," Dr. Windholm chuckles. "Problems with the original body, which no longer exists."

Seeing the quizzical looks, she picks up the mega block, but then reconsiders. She places the block back onto the table and walks to the copy machine on the platform. Castle suddenly realizes that this entire platform is the demo room, their presentation room for investors. This is where they see the magic actually occur.

The doctor takes piece of paper that has a drawing of a flower on it. She places the paper on the copy machine face, and closes the lid. She hits the START button.

Seconds later, a copy comes out. She shows the original to her guests.

"On the surface, perfect in every way," she tells them. "Here's the second problem."

She takes the copy she has just made, and places it onto the copy machine, face-down, and closes the lid again. She hits the START button again. Seconds later, a second copy comes out. She removes the first copy from the face of the copier, and replaces it with the second copy. Closing the lid, she hits the START button a third time.

"You're making copies of copies," Kate realizes.

"Exactly, Detective," a satisfied Dr. Windholm smiles. "When we send you back that first time, we are deconstructing you. We are making a copy of the original. When you are reconstructed on the other side, it is a copy of you. When you return, you are deconstructed again, and –"

"A copy of the copy of the original returns," Castle says softly, almost a whisper.

"And if you are sent back a second time, for a second trip," Windholm continues, "then it is a copy of the copy of the copy of the original that lands back in time, and a copy of the copy of the copy of the copy of the original that returns."

"That's . . . that's horrible," Kate exclaims. "That's . . . that's . . ."

"That's time travel, Detective Beckett," the doctor says confidently. She walks to the keyboard one more time, entering in parameters.

"Mr. Castle, please pick up that Mega block," she instructs, pointing to the red block on the table. Castle picks it up and handles it, turning it over a few times. He notices what appears to be – for lack of a better term – a black metal bracelet that seems to surround the mega block.

"I just wanted you to feel that it is real," she tells him. "Now, please put the block inside the glass box on the table, and close the lid."

"The glass box is made of a special structure, a special material and coating – another golden egg, if you will," she tells them.

Castle does as requested, placing the red block inside the glass box container, which is roughly two feet by two feet by two feet. Seconds after he closes the lid, Dr. Windholm clicks an icon on the screen, and Castle and Kate hear a slight popping noise. Suddenly the block disappears.

"Neat trick," Castle muses aloud, mesmerized at the thought that he has just watched an object that he had just been handling disappear.

"Not yet," the doctor tells him, smiling, glancing at her watch. "Open the lid and reach inside," she tells the couple.

Kate Beckett does just that. She opens the lid, and reaches down, waving her hand around to make sure that what they have just witnessed isn't some type of illusion at work.

"Nothing here," she offers her companion, her voice shaking and barely above a whisper. She glances back toward the doctor, who is calmly staring at her watch.

"What just –" Castle begins, but he is cut off by a quick raise of Dr. Windholm's hand, who continues staring at her watch.

"Close the lid, Detective. Now, wait for it . . ." she tells the couple as she begins counting it down out loud.

"5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . ." she says.

At the sound of 'one', a second popping sound is heard, drawing Castle and Kate's attention back to the small box on the table. Without further warning, the mega block reappears in the protected box, as Castle and Kate both take an involuntary step backward.

"Now, to answer your question. That toy block just went back in time, landing at this very spot on April 26, 2009. Four years ago. It then spent exactly five hours sitting in that spot before automatically bringing itself back to a space-time point exactly twenty seconds after it left. Five hours in the past, twenty seconds of present real time."

Castle and Kate stare blankly at the object, and then back to the clearly amused doctor.

"That, my friends, is Kronologix."


	4. Chapter 4

**Kairos – Chapter 4**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Friday – April 26, 2013, 5:08 p.m., Seven floors below street level at a warehouse in South Brooklyn_**

.

Dr. Sandra Windholm smiles as she takes a seat in one of the six chairs that sit atop the raised platform on the large basement structure at Kronologix. It never fails. Regardless of where one falls in the time travel conundrum – believer or skeptic – the reaction to the 'mega block party' as one of her graduate assistants dubbed the demonstration process is always constant.

Total, flabbergasting awe. Followed by a bit of fear.

As she has learned to do in the past, the doctor simply sits, and observes the couple. She has told them – in boring but descriptive terms – what they have just witnessed. Experience with countless past demonstrations has taught her to now shut up and allow her 'audience' – if you will – to process what they have just witnessed. It's no small task as both Castle and Kate Beckett are now seated across from the doctor, both almost falling backward into their chairs, trying to square in their minds what they have just seen with their own eyes and heard with their own ears.

 _"That toy block just went back in time, landing at this very spot on April 26, 2009. Four years ago. It then spent exactly five hours sitting in that spot before automatically bringing itself back to a space-time point exactly twenty seconds after it left."_

It takes a few more seconds before Castle finally speaks up. He is obviously talking to Dr. Windholm, but his gaze is planted firmly on Kate Beckett.

"I . . . I don't believe it," he says aloud. "I mean, I want to believe it . . . I do . . . but Doctor, that's . . ."

"Impossible," Kate completes his sentence, and now turns her attention to the doctor who sits across from them, watching them with a curious, calm detachment.

"Say that again," Castle finally requests, after another four or five seconds of silence from Dr. Windholm when it becomes clear that the doctor isn't offering any further explanation. "Please."

Dr. Windholm smiles, stands, and walks to the table and opens the box. She retrieves the red toy mega block and brings it back to the chairs. She tosses the block toward Kate, who catches it easily. She pulls her chair closer to the couple, so that she is now sitting less than two feet across from them.

"That block was deconstructed."

She goes silent, staring at the couple, waiting for an acknowledgement. She gets it a few seconds later.

"Okay," Castle replies.

"Once deconstructed – broken down into digital data – it was transmitted through a wormhole that we opened.

"What wormhole?" Kate asks. "Where was the –"

"The box," Castle whispers, suddenly putting the pieces together in his mind, as if it were a scene in one of his books. If only he could have conceived of such a scene.

"Correct, Mr. Castle," Dr. Windholm replies in response. The glass box – which is far, far more than just a glass box – contains the wormhole. Stabilizes the tunnel allowing the transmission to proceed. Then tears it down."

"But how did you deconstruct the block?" Kate asks, still skeptical but not willing to totally dismiss what she has seen with her own eyes.

"The bracelet," Castle replies quickly, as his mind continues to piece together what his eyes have seen.

"Correct again, Mr. Castle," the doctor nods, impressed. It is rare that one of her 'witnesses' begins to put it all together so quickly. "The bracelet . . . well, it is easier to just show you first, then explain."

She stands and walks to the edge of the platform. Just when it appears she is ready to fall off the edge into a four foot plunge to the floor deck below, she stops, her hands raised and obviously coming into contact with something along the wall. Except there is no wall.

Is there?

"We're inside a glass structure?" Kate asks in realization.

"Very good, Detective," Dr. Windholm answers. "A very remarkable glass. Completely transparent. Neither of you saw it. And I still don't see it, even though I am standing right next to it," she marvels.

"Another golden egg?" Castle muses aloud.

"In a manner of speaking," the doctor replies with a sudden look of sadness. It disappears as quickly as it appeared.

"This . . . it is . . . this is from a . . . an ex-colleague," she finally manages.

Before Castle or Kate can ask for an elaboration, the doctor swings the conversation into a different direction by moving her hands toward a large red button. Castle stares in wonder, realizing that until she moved her hand to the button, he didn't even see it, even though it is 'on the wall' right next to her. It appears to be floating in the air.

"Curiouser and Curiouser," he remarks.

"Far closer than you think, Mr. Castle," the doctor chuckles as she hits the red button. Suddenly, black metal walls rise out of the platform and rise up some fifteen feet into the air. At fifteen feet, they intersect with a black ceiling – the top of the box in which they have unknowingly been seated. Castle nods his head, realizing that the entire raised platform is – in fact – a self-contained box in itself.

The final click in place throws the room into complete darkness, save a holographic image resting in the hands of Kate Beckett, who almost drops the block in her hands in surprise.

"Okay, now that is totally cool!" Castle exults, to the amusement of Dr. Windholm. He stares with Kate at the holographic image of the red mega block that hovers about a foot above the real block still in Kate's hands.

"What you are seeing is a virtually accurate – and recall our discussion on the word 'virtually' – a virtually accurate representation of the block in the detective's hands," Windholm tells Castle.

"Detective, the bracelet around the mega block reads the chemical organization, physical attributes and physical appearance of the block, and recreates it in the holographic image you see – which is invisible to the naked eye in normal lighting. Here in the darkness, however, you can see exactly what the bracelet is doing. Toss it to me."

"But – the image," Kate begins.

"The image is simply that for now," Dr. Windholm explains. "An image. A representation. It will not be harmed."

Kate complies, tossing the block toward the doctor. It is a surreal sight, watching the holographic image of the block spin in the air as it travels toward the doctor along with the real block. Windholm catches the block and moves expertly toward the table, using the light from the holographic image to light her way. She places the image back in the glass-like container.

Dr. Windholm walks back toward the computer keyboard, still using the light from the holographic image and the computer monitor on the table to guide her, humming a tune. She stops at the keyboard and enters the same commands.

"Okay, now that you have seen the magic act," she chuckles, "watch closely so you can see what is actually happening."

She clicks the same icon to launch the process. Now, in the darkness, they can see the holographic image of the mega block seemingly waver for a brief instant, then collapse back into the bracelet that surrounds the red mega block. At the same time, the mega block itself disintegrates into a tiny puddle of white dust at the bottom of the container. A second later, the bracelet itself disappears.

"Time travel occurs through a wormhole," Dr. Windholm begins. "Digital representations – copies, if you will – are created and sent through a curvature in space-time that we create. The digital copies are created by the bracelet. The curvature is created by the container you see.

Suddenly, the bracelet reappears inside the 'glass' container, and almost instantaneously, the mega block reappears. A second later, the holographic image of the mega block reappears, hovering a foot above the block itself.

Each time an object – or a person – goes through, however, we are tearing that object or person down and putting it – or him or her – back together."

She turns, and using the light from the holograph, walks back to the now black walls and finds the large red button. There is a circular space cut out in the wall, corresponding with the location of the red button. Depressing the button, the black walls smoothly slide back down into the floor below, bringing natural light back into the room.

"So – if this had been a real person – had this been you, Mr. Castle – you would be wearing the bracelet," she continues, walking back toward the couple. "The bracelet creates a replica – an image – of you. Using patented 3D technology, it creates a virtually identical version of you. Then it breaks its host – you, physically – down into data, a digital representation of you. Now – at that precise instant – everything you are is now contained within this bracelet," she tells him as she pulls a second bracelet from her white lab coat pocket.

"The storage capabilities of this bracelet have to be . . . it has to be massive," Castle marvels.

"Right again, Mr. Castle," the doctor nods, then continues. "The holographic image captures your physical attributes, which is the final piece. Once all of this is loaded, so to speak, the bracelet deconstructs itself and collapses inside the wormhole. It now contains you – everything about you – how you look, how you think, your memories, everything. Along with that, it contains its own program. Inside that program – which is already nothing more than ones and zeroes – digital information – are the instructions on how to traverse the wormhole, and how to reconstruct itself – _and its inhabitants_ – once the journey is complete."

She stops, checking for understanding.

"Say that last part again, one more time please," Kate requests, her eyes squinting in a quizzical manner. She's trying to understand this. More, she is trying to believe what she has seen.

"Certainly, Detective," Dr. Windholm replies. The bracelet – in addition to housing the deconstructed version of you – also houses its own instructions on what to do. Which specifically tells it how to traverse the wormhole, how to reconstruct itself on the other side, and how to reconstruct its inhabitant –"

"Me," Kate interrupts.

"Yes, you," Dr. Windholm confirms. "Once it gets to the other side, it reconstructs you. It keeps itself contained on your arm. And _this_ part is crucial," she tells them, looking back and forth between the two as she sits again across from them.

"You must keep the bracelet on at all times while you are back in the past, on the other side. The bracelet keeps contact with you. That contact tells the bracelet that you are okay. That contact tells the bracelet – which is the conduit now – that contact tells the bracelet to continue running it's program."

"What program is that?" Castle asks.

"Once you are reconstructed, the bracelet is programmed to automatically return after a precise, specific and pre-determined amount of time. This is a very exact process. If the connection is broken – if the bracelet senses loss of contact – it assumes that its host is no longer viable."

She pauses, watching their heads nod in understanding.

"If the contact between you and bracelet is broken, it assumes you are dead. And it terminates the program, and automatically returns itself to the programmed coordinates – which are the latitude and longitude of its starting position before traversing the wormhole."

"But there is no glass container . . . er, box . . . on the other side, Doctor," Castle argues. "Therefore, there is no wormhole there for it to return through."

"Very, very good, Mr. Castle," Windholm acknowledges, pleased with his deduction. "But remember what I told you. The mega block spent five hours back in 2009. Four years in the past. But how long did the wormhole here – inside the box you see – stay open?" she asks, pointing back at the box.

"About fifteen seconds or so," Kate says aloud, now nodding her head in understanding.

"Actually twenty seconds, detective, but you are understanding, which is good," Windholm tells her. "Five hours passed in real time for the block, in the past. But here, in the present, only twenty seconds passed." She stands up and walks to a white board hanging on the wall – the wall that is transparent. Only now are Castle and Kate beginning to see these things – red buttons, white boards . . . and a door! A door leading, apparently, into the earth rock structure.

"The wormhole was opened, and the bracelet – and its cargo, if you will – were transmitted, for lack of a better term, through the wormhole," Dr. Windholm tells them, completing the discussion. "The wormhole stays open – and stable – for twenty seconds before terminating. Before closing."

"And so the bracelet," Castle begins, "which is now on the other side, is programmed to return within twenty seconds of elapsed time in our . . . our –"

"Our space-time, Mr. Castle," she tells him, and is pleased to see two heads nodding.

"So, here are the caveats. The bad news, if you will," she smiles strangely, picking up a blue marker and writing on the board. She writes the number '1', and writes the word 'Bracelet'.

"First of all, the bracelet is the conduit. Contact must always be made between you and bracelet. If that contact is broken, the bracelet terminates the program, and immediately returns without you."

"That means we're stuck," Castle says with a note of alarm.

"That means you're stuck," the doctor concurs.

"How does one get back?" Kate asks.

"One doesn't," the doctor replies. She allows another moment of quiet to fall in the room, allowing Castle and Kate to reflect on what they have just head.

"That's a big problem," Castle decides.

"No," the doctor argues. "That is a caveat. Nothing more. It is a known entity that must be avoided."

Castle opens his mouth to speak, but she raises a hand, politely silencing him.

"Mr. Castle, put yourself on the beach. You are standing at the edge of the ocean. You are out of breath. You have been swimming in the ocean, and you have seen incredible sights under the water. But you can only hold your breath for so long before you have to come back up. The solution to your problem is an air tank with a diving regulator, allowing you to breath underwater. The caveat – however – is that you cannot take the mouthpiece out of your mouth, and you can't stay down longer than your air supply. Those aren't problems, Mr. Castle. Those are simply caveats that accompany the solution. In this case, the bracelet, which contains knowledge of your DNA, must remain in contact with your DNA during the entirety of the journey. If that contact is broken, then you are effectively marooned."

Reluctantly, the novelist nods his head in understanding, if not agreement.

"The second caveat," Dr. Windholm continues, as she writes the number '2' on the board, "is the time frame. So far, the longest we can allow a person to stay back in time, as it were, is twenty hours." She writes '20 hours' on the board, then turns to face the couple.

"How did you find that out?" Kate asks.

"The hard way," Dr. Windholm replies, and her firm gaze does not invite – or allow for – any further questions.

"The third caveat," she continues, now writing the number '3' on the white board, "is one that we placed upon ourselves, one that we put in place, in code contained within the bracelet."

She writes the word 'Failsafe' next to the number '3', and continues speaking.

"In order to minimize the likelihood that a time traveler will attempt to alter their own past, we have implemented a failsafe. The closer one gets to his or her doppelganger from that time period, the more the bracelet will attempt to repel you away from that person."

Seeing the confusion in their eyes, she elaborates.

"Only one of you can exist within the same time continuum. The bracelet will ensure that it destroys the DNA provider – the wearer of the bracelet – if proximity to the original owner of that time period is breached. You cannot come within fifty feet of your doppelganger, or you will be destroyed. So the time traveler will always be extinguished at the expense of the original owner of that time period when traveling to the past. Despite some scientist's negations of the grandfather paradox, if the original is killed, then the time traveler will cease to exist upon their return to their time period. The bracelet will always protect the DNA of the resident of the oldest space-time period. If you go back to, say, 2010, the bracelet protects the resident of 2010. If you go forward to 2020, the bracelet protects you, the original. And to answer your question – no, we have not sent anyone forward in time."

"But what if – and just go with me on this, I just like to see all angles," an excited Castle asks, drawing a chuckle from his companion. "What if I go back and accidently kill my . . . my doppelganger in the past? Not that I would want to, mind you, but just the idea –"

"That's where the second failsafe comes into play, Mr. Castle," Dr. Windholm interrupts. Caveat 2 is tells us that the longest you can stay in the past is twenty hours."

"Yes, you mentioned that," Kate agrees. "I assume at twenty hours, the bracelet automatically brings you back."

"No, Detective," the doctor tells her. "At twenty hours, your body disintegrates. For reasons we have yet to discover, the body's stability in the past is altered. It is the return journey back to our present time which seems to re-establish full stability."

"So you're saying that if one goes back and stays beyond twenty hours, one dies," Castle says aloud, asking for clarification.

"Yes," Dr. Windholm replies.

"And if one takes off the bracelet, the bracelet detects that and automatically returns to our present time," he continues.

"Yes," the doctor confirms again.

"And . . ." Kate pauses for a moment, offering a glance at Castle before continuing.

"If the bracelet is taken off, then that person is marooned, stuck in the past," Kate repeats.

"Yes," Dr. Windholm confirms yet again.

"But only for twenty hours," Castle remarks.

"And then you disintegrate," Kate finishes his thought.

"Yes, and yes," Dr. Windholm replies.

The trio is quiet for a few seconds, before Castle breaks the silence.

"Well, that's one hell of a caveat," he says, wiping his now-furrowed brow, and bringing nervous laughter to the room.

"We want to be able to go back into the past and observe, document, record – nothing more," Dr. Windholm reminds them. "If scientific history has taught us anything, it is this: Nature, or creation, has its own order. The more you mess with creation, the more you _have to_ mess with creation. The more you mess with the natural order, the more you must _continue_ to mess with that natural order."

"I'm not sure I understand," Kate asks, glancing at Castle who seems to understand, based upon his facial expression.

"Maybe that's obvious to a scientist or a writer . . . but I'm just a cop" she chuckles, and Castle laughs with her. It's a theme he has heard from her numerous times, dating all the way back to their earliest cases together. When he was a thorn in her side . . . a pain in her ass. Her words, not his.

"What this means, Detective, is the more you alter nature, the more you are forced to continue altering nature," Dr. Windholm tells her. "We add chemicals to our foods, which leads to unseen consequences for us –"

"Which forces us to add more chemicals to foods," Castle muses in understanding. "We alter the oceans with trash, with excessive fishing, with chemicals –"

"Which forces us to further alter the oceans," Dr. Windholm continues his thought process. "Our food, the animal habitats, the oceans, the very air we breathe, the water we drink . . . the more we alter these things, the more we must continue to alter these things. Now put that into the context of time travel. You make one change, one small alteration, and you will be forced to make hundreds of other alterations – all in an attempt to reset the status quo . . . which, however, will never be re-set," she warns.

"The natural order of things – people, places, events – they all must be preserved," she continues. "We are not encouraging the change of that natural order in the past. We only wish to observe."

The trio falls into a comfortable silence again, while Kate and Castle ponder things, unknowingly grasping the other's hands, allowing their fingers to intertwine. Finally, Castle raises his eyes, and glances at the door on the transparent wall, which seems to go right into the rock structure.

"So Dr. Windholm," he asks. "Where does that door lead?"

The doctor smiles broadly, pulling herself upright out of her chair.

"I thought you would never ask," she tells him, smiling. She walks to the door, and stops, turning to face them.

"Well? Are you coming or not?"

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 **A/N** : Again – my disclaimer for this story. The science / science fiction in this story is completely, 100% my take on different facts, theories and suppositions that have been postulated. They are – under no circumstances – to be considered or argued as scientific fact. This is just a science fiction story starring our favorite couple. So – I hope you are enjoying / intrigued by the possibilities as it relates to them – not the science.

As always, thank you for reading. On to chapter 5 . . .


	5. Chapter 5

**Kairos – Chapter 5**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

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 ** _Friday – April 26, 2013, 5:30 p.m., Seven floors below street level at a warehouse in South Brooklyn_**

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Dr. Sandra Windholm reaches down to the metal door handle, the only piece of the large door that is not made of glass. The door frame is simply a cut-out glass component. She opens the door outward, her fingers beckoning her guests to enter. Castle notices a short walkway that is eight, perhaps ten feet in length. Looking past the walkway, he notices an opening in the rock structure that is the wall, and walks through, followed by Kate Beckett and Dr. Windholm. As soon as he steps into the structure, the floor lights up. It reminds him of the emergency lights on the floor of an airliner.

"What you saw behind us," the doctor begins as they walk, "was our demonstration area. That is where we take our potential investors and interested parties to give them a glimpse of what we do."

The trio walks into a brightly lit room, much smaller in scale than the one they have just left. The room is no more than fifty feet by fifty feet. It, too, seems to be built on a raised platform. Castle and Kate's eyes are immediately drawn to the large, glass cylinder in the middle of the room. He squeezes her hand excitedly.

"This room, however," Dr. Windholm continues, "is where the actual work is done. That cylinder you see there . . ." she says, pointing to the structure the couple has already noticed, ". . . is the life-sized, working prototype that corresponds to the small glass container you saw in the previous room.

Castle nods his head, as does Kate. The cylinder is exactly what they surmised when they saw it. It is massive, taking up almost half of the room.

"Larger than I would have thought," Castle muses.

"The cylinder is made of the same structural 'glass' material as the previous container," Dr. Windham tells them. "It stands fifteen feet and six inches tall, and the diameter across the cylinder is twenty-two feet. We call this the transport room."

"So, this really exists," Kate remarks, her voice no more than a whisper. She is in awe of what she is seeing, and its implications . . . what it could mean for different people.

What it could mean for her.

"It really exists, Detective," Dr. Windholm replies. "I know this is a lot to take in. I know it defies everything you probably have believed as scientific truth. The reality, however, is that science fiction is simply science fact that is yet to be proven or understood."

"Interesting tag line," Castles wonders aloud.

"Actually, it is," the doctor agrees. "You will see it in a number of areas as you leave. If you want the full tour of our facilities. In the interim . . . would either of you like a test drive?"

"What do you mean 'test drive'?" Castle asks suddenly. "You mean . . . as in . . . me . . . I . . ."

"I mean, would you like to experience, first hand, our version of time travel?" she asks.

"Oh . . . I don't think so," Castle replies quickly, shaking his head from side to side and drawing a look of stunned surprise from both women in the room.

"Castle? Really?" Kate questions, unable to contain her surprise. "I would l have bet money you would jump on this without a second thought."

"I, too, am a bit taken back, Mr. Castle," Dr. Windholm admits, masking her disappointment.

"Oh trust me, if you let me sleep on it, I have no doubt that I would be back in a nanosecond tomorrow," he chuckles. "But that was before you explained all this copies of copies of copies crap. I have to really skull that over."

"But you _are_ interested in trying this out," the doctor pushes. She knows – from experience – that the likelihood of a donation is generally going to be tied to a personal experience with the technology. And that experience can have a huge impact on the amount donated.

"Sure, sure," he agrees. "But I think I – or anyone else – would need some type of purpose, some reason beyond just getting my body torn down and reconstructed years in the past just for giggles."

"Oh believe me, Mr. Castle, Detective Beckett," she addresses them both. "This isn't about shits and giggles, so to speak. You have, Mr. Castle, the opportunity to get in on what is still a ground-floor investment opportunity. We have no clients yet, no partners yet, no government oversight yet. We are still firmly in the early-adopter stage. As such, the investment opportunity reflects that status."

"What are you talking, Doctor?" he asks, intrigued. "Of course, I'd have to run anything and everything by Stanley. I didn't get where I am making knee-jerk decisions without his . . . what did you call it . . . oversight."

"I understand completely," the doctor tells him, nodding her head. "I assume Stanley is . . ."

"Stanley Keeton. My financial advisor," he replies.

"Well, I'm sure Mr. Keeton will see the financial upside in what we are offering. Preferred stock, at twenty five cents a share. Four million share minimum transaction."

"A million dollars," Castle notes aloud. Kate can only raise an eyebrow.

"And what are you asking for?" Kate interjects.

"We are trying to raise another four million dollars," Dr. Windholm replies, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'm hoping Mr. Castle might be agreeable to a quarter, or perhaps half of that availability."

"Two million dollars, eight million shares?" he questions. She nods her head.

"That would be taking fifty percent of our remaining available outlay," she agrees.

"What's the total ownership percentage?" he asks.

"At eight million shares, roughly sixteen percent," she tells him, pleased as she notes the inquisitive look in his eyes, knowing he is doing the math in his head.

"You have roughly fifty million shares total?" he asks.

"Yes," she tells him, "including the sixteen millions shares we have just released for investment."

Castle is quiet as he walks up to the large cylinder, placing his hands on the glass-like material.

"It's cold," he says, pulling his hand back in surprise.

"Yes," she says cryptically. "It took us a while to determine . . . well, that was in the past."

"What was in the past?" Kate queries.

"Trial and error, Detective," the doctor replies, clearly avoiding the subject.

"What . . . you're not going to give us the old 'crack a few eggs to make an omelet analogy, are you?" Kate asks.

"No," the doctor replies darkly, and this time, an uncomfortable silence settles among the threesome for the next few seconds.

"People are not eggs, Detective," Windholm finally exhales.

 _"She's lost someone,"_ Castle muses to himself. _"Someone close. Someone here."_ He makes a mental note to do his own little research on Dr. Sandra Windholm when they get home later tonight.

If you are serious about your interest, I'll get you paperwork before you leave our facilities today," she tells him, eager to change the subject.

"That's' fine," he agrees. "I will have Stanley review your documents. But I admit, it sounds like a great opportunity . . . from a financial point of view."

"Good, good," she remarks. "And seriously, give some thought to that test run I offered you. I have yet to have an investor not be personally . . . invested in this project," she tells him, pleased with the development.

"Pig verses the chicken, eh?" he laughs.

"What?" Kate asks in confusion.

"Personal _commitment_ in your investment verses personal _involvement_ in your investment. Kind of like your bacon and eggs breakfast, babe," he tells her. "The chicken is involved in the process, but the pig is committed."

Both women share a short, nervous laugh at the age-old farm joke.

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 ** _Friday – April 26, 2013, A half hour later, in a cab two minutes away from the Kronologix warehouse_**

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"You're certainly quiet for a kid who's been offered a ground floor opportunity in the candy store," Kate remarks with a smile. They are only a few minutes away from the warehouse, having left 'Dr. Evil's lair' as Castle has dubbed the warehouse and grabbed a cab back to the city.

"I really didn't want to say much more inside the facility," he admits. "If I were the CEO there, I would have all of the rooms bugged, just to see what potential people are saying."

"You're probably right," Kate laughs.

"What?" he asks. "That they should have the rooms bugged?"

"No," she remarks. "That if you were CEO, you probably _would_ have all of the rooms bugged."

"You're darn right, I would," he laughs, along with her. Still, now that they are beyond potential prying ears, there is a private conversation he wants to have with her. And part of that will have to wait until they are back at the loft – away from their current cab drivers' ears as well.

"Forget the investment opportunity for a moment," he tells her. "The whole reason I went there – the entire reason I brought _you_ there – was to see if it was real. And it is."

He offers a glance forward toward the dark-skinned Jamaican who is singing a happy song with his own lyrics, and smiles. He turns his gaze back to Kate.

"Think about it," he continues. "Think of what we always joked about, what we would do if time travel were possible."

"Castle, we weren't serious. We were both just joking."

"Were we?" he asks. "Kate, what if this is the universe reaching out to us, giving us a chance to correct a horrific wrong?"

"Okay, now you're being melodramatic . . . even for you."

"Really?" he argues. "That's all you've got?"

"Castle, this is insane," she tells him. "It's far too risky, and you know it," she continues, turning her gaze out the window and the scenery that zips by. He gently grabs her chin, pulling her attention back to him.

"Kate, I once asked you what you would be willing to do to get your mother back. To get your life back. Do you remember?"

"Of course I remember," she comments dryly.

"You said – and I quote – 'anything and everything'," he reminds her. "The universe heard you. Fate heard you. God heard you. You know I don't believe in coincidences."

"Neither do I," she admits.

"So," he begins, "you think it is mere coincidence that the CEO of a time traveling research company takes notice of one of my books, decides to come to my book signing, leaves a card all but inviting me to come watch her pull the curtain back so we can watch the wizard at work? That's all a big coincidence?"

"No, it's no coinci –"

"You're darn right," he interrupts. "Yeah, it's risky. But no, it's no coincidence. You know that . . ."

He stops talking as he notices the cabbie watching them through the rear-view mirror, and quickly shuts the conversation down. Kate senses what he is doing and settles back, closing her eyes.

Twenty-five minutes later, they are walking into the loft on Broome Street. She walks in first, and he closes the door behind them. When he turns from the door, she is standing there next to him. Waiting. They barely are into the loft before she resumes their conversation.

"What if something goes wrong?" she asks.

For a few seconds he just stares at her, with his trademark smirk that – for years now – has driven her crazy in so many different ways. But the smirk gives way to chuckles. And seconds later, he is bent over, guffawing violently.

'Castle," she says in a warning tone.

It's too late. His laughter is loud and boisterous, and turns into a coughing fit, and still, he cannot stop, still bent over.

"Castle!"

His laughter continues, slowly subsiding before it rumbles into a few tailing chuckles. Finally, he makes it over to the sofa where he sits down. He looks up, tears of laughter staining his face.

"This better be –"

"You've hung off a building by your fingertips," he interrupts. "You've been left for tiger food, you've been shot in the chest, you've drowned and been resuscitated, and damn near froze to death in a trailer. You were almost blown to hell by a dirty bomb, and that after almost being blown to bits inside your old apartment. Oh yeah, and hell, just last week you were almost blown to smithereens standing on a time bomb. For heaven's sake, what is it with you and bombs anyway, Beckett?" he chuckles.

"And now," he continues, still barely holding in his laughter, "you have a chance to do something you have long dreamed about. You have a chance to save your mother . . . but you're concerned that _'something might go wrong'_ ", he laughs again, making quotation marks in the air.

"Of course something is going to go wrong!" he bellows. "That's the story that has been written about you and me. We can try this, we can go back to Brooklyn and take the leap –"

"Literally," she adds. He dismisses her thought with a wave of his hand.

"We can go back there – and something _will_ go wrong, that's for certain."

"You're not instilling a lot of confidence here, Castle," she warns.

"But guess what, Kate. We can decide not to try this, we can just forget we ever heard about Sandra Windholm, and time travel, and move on with our lives . . . but I promise you - something will go wrong then, too. That, too, is for certain."

She opens her mouth to object, but suddenly stops. She eyes him warily, and then smiles softly as she nods her head in agreement. Or maybe just acceptance. He's right, of course. This is their story. One of challenges and victories, defeats and resurrections. And against all odds, here they are. Alive. Together. Stronger and closer than ever.

She joins him on the sofa, interlocking her fingers with his.

"Obviously you had a plan in your mind," she begins. "Earlier today you mentioned something about a letter. A single letter."

"Not just _a_ letter," he corrects her. " _The_ letter. The one that started it all. We intercept the letter from Joe Pulgatti to your mother."

He sees the incredulous look on her face, as she begins to realize that he is serious.

"That letter started a chain of events," he continues. "She took his case, discovered what was happening – and that got her killed."

He stands, releasing her hands as he walks away from her – just a few steps – before turning, and returning to her, sitting next to her again. Grabbing both hands again.

"We have an opportunity to do the impossible. Go back in time. Change the course of history. Your history."

"Dr. Windholm was very explicit in saying that going back was for observation pur-"

"Dr. Windholm was very explicit in saying that she wants two millions dollars in investment monies," he interrupts. "Don't lose sight of her big picture, which is fund raising. All that other stuff is posturing."

She glances away, putting her hands through her hair. She throws herself backward, deeper into the plush sofa.

"We don't have to stop Bracken," he tells her. Yeah, he has thought this through. "We don't have kill anyone. We don't have to make any arrests. We simply stop the letter from getting to Johanna. We make sure that we send a reply back to Pulgatti – a reply that will discourage him from ever reaching back out to your mother again. Your mother never gets the letter. She never opens that can of worms. She never gets killed."

"Castle," she begins. "Rick . . ."

"It's dangerous, sure," he interrupts. "But it's worth it. It's _worth_ it. It's worth the risk. _She's_ worth the risk . . . isn't she?"

"I know, Castle. Of course she is. But . . . Remember that word she used, Castle," Kate argues. She wants this. She really does. But she's scared. And she can't ask him to do this. He'll do anything for her, she knows this. But this?

"Virtually," she reminds him. "That's the word she used. She emphasized it. _Almost identical_. And copies of copies. Things could go horribly wrong. You've seen enough of your crazy sci-fi movies to –"

"Hold on there, Beckett," he pushes back, smiling easily. "You know you are a closet sci-fi geek yourself, Miss Nebula 9!"

"Castle, I'm being serious. This is risky, and it's dangerous."

They are quiet for a moment, staring at each other from close quarters, their foreheads now touching. Seconds later, he ends the conversation.

"You can have your mother back, Kate," he says softly. "If you don't do this, you will regret it the rest of your life."

She moves her head back, and drops her chin to her chest, letting a single tear drop onto her waiting lap. He won't say anything else. There is nothing left to say. It's her decision.

"Let's sleep on it," she tells him. "We have the entire weekend in front of us. Deal?"

She extends a hand to him. He ignores her hand, instead, bringing her in for a tight bear hug. The hold the embrace for a little longer than usual.

"A drink?" he offers.

"Where?" she asks.

"The Haunt. One last time . . . before we launch into . . . THE GREAT BEYOND!" he yells, with emphasis on the last three words. It has its desired effect, breaking the tension. She kisses his lips softly.

"Let me go change," she tells him, suddenly dashing toward their room.

"Right behind you, fair maiden," he cries, following her and laughing with each step. They reach the bedroom, with Kate chuckling and Castle almost out of breath.

"Out of shape there, old man?" she teases.

"Oooh, that hurts," he returns, now walking into their bedroom. "Keep it up . . . I might find myself a younger woman . . . somewhere out there . . . somewhere in time," he chuckles.

"Nice," she smiles, as she pulls the blouse over her head, her back to him. She bends over to step out of her black slacks, tossing them to the bed.

"Now you're Superman, too?" she giggles. "And I'm Jane Seymour?"

"You wish," he chuckles under his breath as he walks into the master bathroom. The pillow pops him in the back of his head before he can get completely through the doorway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Kairos – Chapter 6**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

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 ** _Saturday Morning – April 27, 2013, 8:20 a.m., Richard Castle's Loft_**

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The smell from the kitchen is intoxicating. She's been awake for two or three minutes, alone on the sofa where she and Richard Castle fell asleep early this morning after staggering in from the Old Haunt. Deciding that the fifteen or so steps down the hall to the bedroom were far too many, Castle had walked to the hall utility closet and grabbed two pillows and a blanket. He and Kate had proceeded to peel their clothing off, and literally fell onto the oversized sofa, cuddled, and drifted away.

So the smell of biscuits and the sound of sizzling bacon is close – less than thirty feet away. She slowly rises, throwing her feet across the sofa and onto the floor.

"You're up early. And you've been busy," she notes from the sofa, raising her nose, as if that action alone allows the aroma to reach her nostrils.

"I've been thinking," he tells her as he flips the bacon.

"Me too," she offers, rising to her feet.

She bends backward, stretching her back, lifting her arms over her head before traversing the space between them quickly, falling into his chest. He wraps his arms around her, as she quickly turns, spinning them and taking his place in front of the stove. She backs into him as she flips the bacon. He kisses her neck.

"I love you."

"I love you, too.

She leans her head back into the comfortable crook of his neck. He reaches around her, wrapping his hands around the front of her waist.

"What'cha thinking?" he asks. "You first."

"I miss her Castle. So much."

"I know you do, babe."

She turns, and opens the oven, taking out the biscuits. He moves to the refrigerator, and takes out a half gallon of orange juice, and pours them both a glass. He's already put the coffee on, and now he pours her a cup, and brings it to the table where his cup already sits. She's just placed the biscuits there, along with two plates of bacon and eggs. They sit in silence, and she takes one bite.

"I want to see my Mom again," she tells him.

"We're doing this?"

"We're doing this," she smiles weakly, then finds herself strengthened by the growing smile that graces his lips. "You're sure you okay with this, Rick?"

"Are you kidding? I get to use a time machine," he laughs. "Of course I'm okay with –"

"Not a time machine, Castle," she corrects. "And this is not game. It is far more dangerous than your television shows."

"Yeah," he comments. "I know. I know this is real. When do we start?"

"You do realize this may end up costing you a couple million dollars," she tells him.

"It won't be the first time I've written a substantial check for you, Detective Beckett," he reminds her. "And it definitely won't be the last," he chuckles as he glances at her empty ring finger.

She smiles, nodding her head and averting his eyes, as she remembers a certain six-figure check he wrote a few years ago – unasked – that ended in tragedy inside the police station. In truth, if they can go back in time, there really is so much that she would change. Different decisions she would make.

As if reading her mind, he interrupts her thoughts.

"It's a one-time trip, Kate," he reminds her. "We do this one time, for one thing only, and accept whatever happens."

She nods her head, now finding his gaze again. It is soft, and understanding.

"Let's do this," she repeats, as they dive into their breakfast with gusto.

.

 ** _Saturday Night – April 27, 2013, 7:22 p.m., at the Kronologix facility in South Brooklyn_**

"Thanks for meeting us tonight, Doctor," Castle offers in greeting as he and Kate Beckett walk through the front door of the warehouse facility.

"When I said we were good to go, I really didn't expect you to come out here tonight," he continues. "Monday morning would have been just –"

"It's no problem, really, Mr. Castle," Dr. Sandra Windholm counters. "I'm the chief executive officer of a research start-up looking to go public. There are no days off, believe me."

"Still, thank you," Kate remarks, as she removes her coat upon entering the facility. She is surprised at the number of workers here on a Saturday night, and can hear activity down the hallway. Dr. Windholm glances at her, smiling.

"No days off," Kate repeats," drawing an appreciative nod of the head from the doctor.

"Actually, I misspoke," the doctor replies quickly. "Sunday mornings – no work. I give everyone, including myself, the morning off."

"A religious scientist?" Castle wonders aloud.

"Let's just say a smart one, who understands how important those things happen to be for many of my people," she counters.

"I'm surprised," Castle wonders aloud. "I would have thought most scientists to be . . . doubters of faith-type things."

"Some are, some aren't," Windholm agrees. "Many of us choose, however, to believe that all of this – everything we see, smell, breathe, touch, taste – all of this is a result of a brilliant design, and not just a roll of the dice."

As they walk, Richard Castle hands a large manila envelope to Windholm.

"All executed, with a cashier's check," he tells her, now taking serious glances around the room at his surroundings as they walk. Seconds later, they are in the elevator, making a repeat trip seven floors below the street surface.

"I have to say, I'm not surprised that you two are back," Dr. Windholm tells them, her tone friendly and non-confrontational as they descend into the belly of the facility. "And believe me, I am more than pleased to welcome you into the family as an investor, Mr. Castle," the red-head continues.

"But I must ask . . . and please . . . humor me with one question, if you will," she asks.

"Quid pro quo, Doctor," Kate replies, just as affably. "We answer a question, you answer a question."

"Fair enough," the doctor replies, already sensing where their question will go. She caught their looks yesterday afternoon. She knows the question they have. They've probably done their research last night after leaving her facility. If she's honest with herself, she'd be disappointed if they did not.

"What is it that you want to see in the past?" Windholm asks. "Every investor, every interested party has that one thing in history that they just have to witness for themselves. That one event where the history books, the artist's renditions, the black and white photographs from two centuries ago just aren't enough. What is it for you, Mr. Castle?"

Fortunately, it is a question that Castle and Kate both have anticipated, and discussed at length last night at the Old Haunt. It only makes sense that the good doctor would ask such a question, given this is her business. Telling her the truth is absolutely not an option. Dr. Windholm has made it abundantly clear that travel is for 'observations purposes' only. No changes. No modifications. No fiddling around. If she knew what they are planning, she would veto the entire idea, two millions dollars be damned.

The work they do here, and the target benefit – it is a beautiful business model, actually. The idea of documentaries taking on 'real life', the notion that classroom instruction could take on a whole new visual representation, the concept of church sermons accompanied by 'real video'. Yeah, sending someone back to observe and document could turn many industries completely upside down.

Entertainment, Education, Religion. All could realize staggering benefits from the ability of a time traveler with a video camera.

In the end, Castle decided that it would be best to stay close to the truth. Make it about family. It turns out to be far easier than one would think. The death of one's parent – particularly when the parent/child relationship has been solid – is an unforgettable lifetime event. When the death occurs due to murder . . . well, the child ends up learning every nuance, every puzzle piece. As if learning the minute details could somehow bring them back.

The greater irony is that in this case, it is those 'minute details' that they are counting on to get Johanna Beckett back.

Johanna was killed on January 9, 1999. The letter from Joe Pulgatti had been post-marked December 23rd, 1998. Father-daughter conversations over the years confirmed and re-confirmed that Johanna received the letter on Christmas Eve. It was a topic around the Christmas Eve dinner table that evening. Kate had actually been there, on holiday break from college at Stanford. She had listened to her mother drone on about some mobster asking her to look into his case, and dismissed it as normal stuff for Johanna Beckett. The fact that Jim Beckett found nothing unusual about his wife's dinner discussion only confirmed this for Kate Beckett.

So, once they agreed that the letter reached Johanna on Christmas Eve, well, that gave them the date. Knowing that they have up to twenty hours to work with, they have decided to go back that to that particular morning. They will intercept the letter from the mailman. Johanna will never get the note.

"December 24, 1998," Castle replies to Dr. Windholm. The raised eyebrows and surprised countenance on the doctor are almost comical to the couple.

"It's personal," he tells her. "It's a day –"

"A night," Kate corrects him, playing her role as they discussed.

"Yes, you're right, of course," Castle agrees. "It's a night that is special for both of us, for different reasons. A night we both want captured on video," he tells the doctor, holding his iPhone up for emphasis.

"Christmas Eve, 1998," he continues. "Alexis and I began a long tradition of laser tag. She was only six years old. I had taught her to play earlier that year. Dinner that night was turkey and dressing, then lights-out laser tag, with the Christmas decorations the only lighting."

It is Castle at his best, weaving an imaginary tale, a fictional story. Only this time, he isn't writing – he is just telling the story out loud. His facial expressions, his smiles, his animated gestures, they sell the reality of the tale.

"Of all my memories of Alexis, that's the one memory that I don't have on video that I wish I did. I have so many memories of her recorded on audio tape, or video tape. Recitals, playground games, graduations, baptisms, first day of school. But that first laser tag tournament in our living room, my pumpkin's giggles . . . She's already graduated from high school. Some day she will be gone, probably in another city or state, grown and moved on, playing games with another man, making her own family. I want . . . I want this memory forever," he says softly.

It's a masterful performance.

"And I have to be there," Kate continues the tale. "I have to be the one to get inside and place the camera, because Castle cannot get in too close of proximity to . . . to . . ."

"To his real self," Dr. Windholm nods, understanding.

"So what will you do during this time, Mr. Castle?" the doctor asks. "Detective Beckett will be at your place. Where will you be?"

"He will be at my parent's place," Kate replies in Castle's place. Her story is the key, she knows. She has to sell it. It won't be difficult. Not at all.

"My mom . . . Mom was murdered on January 9, 1999. Just a couple of weeks after that Christmas Eve. I was home from college. I was at Stanford. But I came home for the holidays. And I was that college kid who knew everything. I was distant. It was a wonderful holiday, a wonderful Christmas Eve dinner after candlelight services. And Mom and Dad were hugging and kissing . . . and for once, I allowed them to pull me into their little reindeer games. I figured I had them for decades. They both were young. Mom was an attorney. That's where I was headed. She was supposed to live for a long, long time. That's what I thought. There would be many more Christmas Eves. So . . . I didn't bother to take any pictures. No one was video-taping. My last holiday with Mom. And I don't have a single picture. No snapshots. No videos. No audio recordings. Nothing. I . . . I just want to have that . . ."

Kate's words slur a bit as she can barely finish the story. As expected, the emotions – in her moist eyes and shaky voice – they are all too real. It's no act.

It's a bit stunning for Dr. Windholm, who is used to potential investors wanting to go back and see famous historical events. She finds the moment tugging even her hardened emotions. She simply nods her head in understanding, and ushers the duo toward the large cylinder container.

Castle reaches the cylinder a second before Kate, releasing her hand to take a final step to the large transport glass. Again, he places his hand on the surface, and once again he retracts it quickly.

"Still cold," he chuckles.

"You expected something different?" Kate kids, nervously.

Their banter has its intended effect, disarming Dr. Windholm, and alleviating any concerns she may have over their desire to return to the past for . . . shall we say, very personal reasons.

"Standard disclaimers, protecting my company in case anything goes wrong," Windholm tells the couple as she hands each of them a single piece of paper.

"Shortest disclaimer I've seen," Castle whistles, as he begins to read the document. It doesn't matter. He and Kate know the risks. Windholm has been more than up front with both of them, so the words like 'death' and 'termination of life' are no surprise to either of them. Nor are the statements in the document warning of 'legal repercussions' if either of them takes any action during their journey that materially changes the timeline.

"You're well aware of the risks," Dr. Windholm repeats for the couple. "Let me remind you – observation purposes only."

"Yes, I can see that," Castle nods, quickly signing his name and handing the document back to Windholm. Kate repeats the action, and seconds later, the couple is walking into the cylinder.

"Not yet, Mr. Castle," Windholm tells him, stopping both of them in their tracks. She waves them over to the computer keyboard.

"Policy," she tells them. "You must key in your own time-line, and desired coordinates. This ensures that we don't accidently send you to a different time or location than you wish."

"Makes sense," Kate nods. "We only need fifteen hours, right babe?"

"That's right," Castle nods. "Get there at nine in the morning, be out of there by midnight. You and I get to walk the streets, take in a few sights and then sneak in and get things prepared. That gives us time to get the recording devices out of the houses – mine and yours – and get back home . . . back here." He glances at the doctor.

"Fifteen hours is still okay, right?" he asks her.

"That is correct. Normally, travelers have no more than _twenty_ hours," Dr. Windholm continues. "But you haven't asked for that much time. It sounds like you have thought this through, so fifteen hours will be enough time. I trust you are right. Because once set, you have that allotted time and not one second more."

"That's going to be more than enough," Castle responds. Yeah, they have thought this through, backwards and forwards. Anyway, neither he nor Kate want to risk staying back too long. No, they really don't know what 'too long' means, or why they have the trepidation. Perhaps it is just normal caution. He makes a face, taking the black bracelet and putting it on his left wrist.

"Heavier than I expected," he muses aloud.

"Yeah, it is," Kate agrees, placing the matching bracelet on her left wrist as well.

"Well, considering the fact that we are opening a wormhole, breaking ourselves down into computer digits and getting transmitted through a tiny opening . . . I guess it's not all that heavy after all," Castle chuckles, and Windholm recognizes the change in poise. She sees it all the time. Once a traveler steps inside the cylinder for that first time, feeling the cold heaviness of the bracelet, watching the cylinder close, as if swallowing them . . . well, they start to experience a bit of claustrophobia . . . and then fear.

Yeah, panic sets in – and everyone deals with it differently. Some use humor, like Castle. Some close their eyes and grow quiet. One investor – well, he could have been an investor. But a huge panic attack struck the young man down, and eliminated his desire to go back in time, and eliminated his desire to invest in the prospect. It happens sometimes.

"You will go back, one at a time," she tells them. Suddenly, a glass-like door slides from the top of the ceiling of the cylinder, cutting the geometric container in half. Castle and Kate quickly react, rushing toward each other too late, and now staring at each other through a completely transparent glass-like 'wall' that separates them. They place a hand on the material, trying to touch each other, and gain closeness.

"Please move back, at least two steps, both of you," Windholm tells them. She glances down at the coordinates that they have set for themselves.

 _9:00 in the morning, on December 24, 1998_.

They will land just inside Central Park. It's generally safer than having two people appear out of thin air in the middle of an office building. That could be problematic. Another lesson learned from past experiences.

"Dr. Windholm," Castle asks suddenly. "I know it's kind of late to ask this, but . . . is this going to hurt?"

"Again . . . you're being torn down into digital data, Mr. Castle. What do you think?" Windholm replies honestly.

"Ten seconds, Detective Beckett," Windholm tells her quickly, starting the program. "Ladies first."

Suddenly, the lights dim significantly, pitching the room into semi-darkness. A glow appears about a foot above both Castle and Kate, and both instinctively look upward. Both step back, alarmed at what they see. Above Kate is a holographic image of her, perfect in every way to the naked eye. Similarly, above Castle, a holographic representation of him appears.

Castle's eyes grow larger, as he watches Kate close her eyes and take a couple of deep breaths. A few seconds later, they hear Windholm counting down.

Three.

Two.

A barely audible popping sound can be heard, as the holographic image of Kate collapses into the bracelet.

One.

"I love you!" both scream to the other, and then Kate's scream raises in pitch for a brief second. Her eyes grow large, her mouth open . . . and then nothing.

She's gone.

Castle watches a translucent powder leave an outline of Kate's body. It captures her wide eyes and open mouth perfectly, before it quickly disintegrates into a white dust, falling harmlessly to the surface floor.

"My God!" Castle exclaims, not hearing the identical countdown that the doctor has started for him. Seconds later, he feels a jolt unlike anything he has ever experienced. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound escapes. In its place, a translucent outline of his body hangs in the air for a second, before it, too, falls harmlessly to the ground as a white powder, like Kate.

"Happy travels," Dr. Windholm says softly, glancing at her watch to count off the twenty seconds of current time line that they will be gone. Her watch reads 19:47:19 in military time.

.

 ** _Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 9:00 a.m., Behind a park bench just inside Central Park_**

Richard Castle's open mouth takes in the snow flurries that pepper the air, watching his breath leave his mouth in the cold morning. His eyes immediately find those of his love, Kate Beckett, who stands five feet away from him, to his side. She is shivering in the cold as well.

"Holy Shit!" he exclaims, as he opens his arms rushing to embrace her. She falls into his arms, hugging him tightly. He places his chin atop her head and glances around at his surroundings. He notes the trees, he sees the people in the distance. They are roughly sixty yards into the park, and he can see the cars driving along 5th Avenue, running along the park.

He immediately notices the type of cars. Rather, the 'age' of the cars. The cars of 2012, 2013 are nowhere in sight. His eyes fall downward, catching a detached page from the New York Post blowing across the white snowy surface of the ground. He smiles. A newspaper blowing across the grass isn't a common occurrence in 2013. Not in the age of the internet.

He reaches down, grabbing it. He glances at the top, noting the date, before handing it to Kate.

December 23, 1998.

"Probably a paper from last night," he marvels, his eyes widening and now searching for the cars passing by once again. Kate takes in the date on the newspaper, as tears form in her eyes.

"We're here, Castle. We're here."

"No, Kate," he corrects her. " _She's_ here."


	7. Chapter 7

**Kairos – Chapter 7**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 ** _Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 9:04 a.m., In a taxi cab leaving Central Park_**

.

The couple sits in the back seat of the fast-moving yellow cab, both with a strong sense of déjà vu. It's natural given that they are now some fourteen-plus years back in time. They have a plan, sure, but right now that plan has given way to simple awe.

They are back in 1998!

For Kate, the city is only vaguely familiar. In 1998, Kate Beckett was living at Stanford, already a couple of years into college, getting accustomed to a very different life, and a very different culture on the west coast – a very different world than New York City.

For Castle, however, the city is extremely familiar. It is as if he is re-living a not-unenjoyable time of his life. Alexis is five or six years old, Mother is younger, more energetic, less heartbroken. His relationship with ex-wife Meredith is starting to normalize, as the sting of divorce and infidelity is starting to wane. In fact, he and the still-aspiring actress are now delving into their 'deep-fried twinkie' phase, and he is on the cusp of his 'page-six' lifestyle. Not that he wants to go back to any of that . . . but for the year 1998? Well . . . it was leaps and bounds better than the previous few years - post-divorce - just figuring out single parenthood, still getting over finding his wife in bed with another man . . .

Castle sits rubbing his hands, his arms, glancing at his fingers – just making sure everything is still there.

"That felt . . ."

"Unpleasant," she finishes for him.

"And we have to do it again," he almost whimpers, drawing a smile from his companion. She reaches over to hold his hand.

"You big baby," she chuckles. "Where do we start?" she asks, moving on, her eyes bright and excited. "I know where I want to start. I want to –"

"First of all, our phones won't work here," he reminds her, as she reaches into her purse with her free hand. He knows that she wants to talk with her mother. Our numbers, our carriers . . . it's all different here."

She nods her head, remembering they had discussed this last night. What would work and what wouldn't work.

"Second – and we discussed this last night, too. You can't see her, babe," he tells her. "Not now. I've got a job to do with Johanna. You have a job to do at the post office. We stick to the plan. You won't see her here, babe. But if we are successful, then you will see her tomorrow. Of course, tomorrow actually means fifteen years from now when we return to our time-line, but –"

"Castle!" she hisses in a whispered voice. "I want to talk to Mom. I want to hear her voice. You don't understand –"

"I understand perfectly," He warns her quickly. "Here's what else I understand. I've written enough books – and you've read enough books – where the characters jumps the gun, goes off half-cocked doing that one thing that the reader is screaming for him or her not to do," he tells her. "'Don't open that door. Don't go to the window. Don't answer the phone . . .'

He squeezes her hand for support. He knows this isn't what she wants to hear. But they've already talked about this.

"You see it all the time. And that's what I am seeing now. Don't go to her. Don't call her. Stay with the game plan, and in less than fifteen hours – we are back home. And you are with your mother," he pleads with her.

"Castle . . . Rick . . . please," she asks, and just the hitch in her voice breaks his heart. He knows how exciting and wonderful and difficult this is for her. This is an answered prayer, an impossible dream. The Christmas present of all Christmas presents has just been placed in her lap, half-opened . . . and she is supposed to just sit there and ignore it?

Impossible, he knows.

He places his left hand in her right hand, and she tightens her grip immediately while drumming nervously on the door handle with her own left hand. They ride in silence for the next few minutes, both deeply lost in their own thoughts.

The cab finally pulls up to a stop at the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. Truth be told, they could have walked here from the park – it would have been perhaps a twenty minute walk. But mentally, they are in a hurry. They need to put things in motion here quickly.

While people may recognize the author who is still coming into his own in 1998, no one knows a thirty-something year-old Kate in this timeline, so she walks into the hotel lobby, cash in hand - another piece of their plan developed last night at the Old Haunt. Not only do their cell phones not work here, but their 2013 debit or credit cards won't work here either. They can't pull money out of ATM machines. Not now, not in this timeline. So, cash it must be. Fortunately for them, Castle keeps a heavy stash on-hand in his wall safe at the loft. Taking thousands of dollars out from the ATM over the weekend back in their original timeline would have been problematic.

While she goes inside to get them a room, Castle stays outside, and goes across the covered, expansive driveway where patrons are loading and unloading from cars and cabs, to the gift store there. He purchases a New York Yankees baseball hat. He isn't filthy famous yet, but he is beginning to make a name for himself. He can't allow himself to be recognized, even though it is only a distant possibility. He puts the cap on, along with his sunglasses, and heads across the driveway to the lobby, catching the elevator up to the lobby level. Kate is already there, waiting for him, room key in hand.

Hand in hand, the walk back to the bank of elevators, and take the ride up to the twentieth floor. They remain quiet as she slips the key into the door, opening up to a small, quaint room.

"Home sweet home," he muses kiddingly.

"For one night," she agrees.

"Not even that long," he corrects her. "We just need a place to crash and lay low for a few hours or more, once we get this done. Before we go back."

Castle takes his coat off and tosses it on a chair. He walks to the bed, and sits on the edge of the mattress, picking up the room telephone there. He chuckles at the antiquated technology in his hand.

"Wow," he can only muster.

"Who are you calling?" she asks, glancing out the window at the view of Times Square hundreds of feet below.

" _I_ am not calling anyone," he tells her, handing her the phone handset. " _You_ are calling your mother," he tells her, and can only smile weakly at the wide-eyed expression she gives him.

Yeah, impossible. It's a bad idea. Everything is screaming at him not to do this. But he knows he will be fighting her on this for the next fourteen hours and twenty-one minutes, and that is not a prospect he is looking forward to.

"I know this is going to be killing you for the next . . . fourteen hours and twenty-odd minutes," he tells her, glancing at his watch. "Don't say anything, not a word to her. For now – just be satisfied with hearing her voice. Nothing more," he tells her. "Are we good?"

She nods her head excitedly, thankful that he understands.

"I'm sure you know her old work phone number by heart," he tells her.

She does, indeed. The phone number for her mother's firm is burned deep into the recesses of her memory. Thankfully, 1998 was before the absolute explosion and proliferation of the culture of smart cell phones in the hands of everyone. Sure the technology existed. But not to the point that people no longer knew the phone numbers of those who they called most frequently.

She dials the digits with shaking fingers, and he grabs her other hand for support. Seconds later, she hears the phone ringing on the other end.

"Oh God, Oh God, Castle," she whispers.

"Hello, this is Johanna Beckett," she hears on the other end. Her hand pulls away from Castle, quickly rushing to her mouth, covering her lips, muffling the sobbing sound that threatens to leak between her fingers. She can't say a word.

"Hello? Who's calling please? Hello?" the voice asks again before Kate takes a quick step toward the nightstand and slams the phone down back into its cradle. She stands there for a moment, tears streaming down her face, alternately laughing out loud in unbridled joy and crying in anguish. It's a moment Castle will take to his grave, he knows.

A minute later, a much more composed Kate Beckett stares down at the man who still sits on the edge of the mattress next to the nightstand. He is all business now.

"Get it out of your system?" he asks, no emotion in his voice.

"Not really," she tells him, honestly.

"Too bad," he tells her coldly. They have zero time to waste. He glances at his watch. "In sixteen days, your mother is going to be murdered. Brutally."

She nods her head in agreement, her thoughts now crystalizing toward the task at hand.

"So . . . are you ready or not?" he finally asks. "We have got a lot of work to do, and even though we have over fourteen hours left here, our window of opportunity is much shorter – and it's closing as we sit here. We don't have much time."

.

 ** _Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 11:47 a.m., Outside The Beckett Law Firm, P.L.L.C. in Queens_**

.

Richard Castle sits in a large chair in the semi-dark of the small, two-story building in Queens. It's not what he expected from an attorney, but then again, he has to remind himself – Johanna was a civil attorney. She wasn't a high-priced Manhattan lawyer, taking large, high profile cases for the most part. She was one of the 'lawyers for the people', and her surroundings reflect as such.

His disguise is holding, and he can only hope that no one from Johanna's small firm comes down asking any questions. Her team, her offices, they are upstairs on the second floor. Here downstairs, there is only a single CPA in an office on the left side of the building, and a small tax attorney on the right side. So it is easy for Castle to play the role of a customer waiting for either of the downstairs businesses.

He's been waiting for roughly fifty minutes now before he is rewarded with his quarry. The lonely mail man – woman in this case – steps inside from cold outside, shaking the new-fallen snow off her coat. Castle has seen her coming up the short deck of steps through the door window, and immediately falls into his role. He waits until the postal worker delivers the day's mail to the CPA office and the tax attorney office. As the she approaches the elevator on the wall directly across from the door, Castle intentionally stumbles into her, knocking the bundle of envelopes out of her hands and across the floor.

"Oh gosh, I am so sorry, so sorry," he quickly tells them woman, scrambling to his feet far more quickly than she can. He rushes to pick up the envelopes, scanning the sending-party information with his eyes as he does. Fortunately, as planned, he has hit the delivery person hard enough for her to struggle a bit to get back to her feet. The envelope from the prison is the fifth envelope he picks up. He keeps it in his hand, as he gathers others quickly. Turning his back to the woman, he pockets the letter in his inner coat pocket, and pulls the rest of the letters together. He then pretends to lose control of the letters, tossing them into the air with a cry of alarm.

"Oh crap," he shouts," completing his klutz routine. He quickly bends down on a knee to pick the letters up again – a second time. By this time, the woman has found her bearings again. Castle quickly comes alongside her, handing her the letters, apologizing profusely. It could not have worked better. He gives the heavens a silent but heartfelt thanks as he hands her the remaining letters and packages.

"I am so sorry," he says, continuing his ruse. "I am so damn clumsy sometimes. That's what everyone tells me. I'm so sorry, I hurt you, didn't I?" he half asks the woman, now aggressively frisking her, checking her for any injuries. The ruse works, as the postal worker wants nothing to do with the large man who has already knocked her to the ground once and seems entirely capable of having another 'accident' any second now.

She backs away, waving him off furiously.

"I'm good, I'm good," she tells him. "Let me be on my way. Thanks for picking my stuff up. I really do appreciate it."

"Are you sure," he asks, moving to close the distance between them again as she tries to get on the elevator, whose doors have now opened. "Here," he says, extending his hand. "Let me carry these –"

"No!" she replies a bit too loudly, then repeats more softly. "No, thank you, sir. I appreciate it." She steps backward into the elevator, praying that the large oaf doesn't follow her, and relieved when the doors close, leaving her alone in the elevator.

Castle stands, staring at the closed elevator door, for a few seconds before breaking into a happy dance, tapping his chest where the letter is safely tucked away in his jacket pocket. Quickly he retrieves the letter from his pocket, ripping the envelope open. He's operating with a sense of urgency as one element of the unknown has just hit him, despite all of their planning.

"She's an attorney," he says out loud quickly, his hands fumbling for real now with the letter, trying to open it. "She might get more than one letter from a prisoner."

He scans the letter, and closes his eyes, whispering a thank you to the heavens, as he exhales, seeing the signature at the bottom.

 _Joe Pulgatti_.

He reads the first paragraph, and smiles, satisfied that he has right letter, then pockets it. He quickly moves to the doorway, exits the building and makes his way down four blocks in the cold before attempting to hail a cab.

.

 ** _Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 1:01 p.m., Outside the Queens Village Station Post Office_**

.

Kate Beckett stares at the letter in her hands one more time. She re-reads it for the fourth time now in the past five minutes – just to make sure the tone is right. She and Castle have just left the Central Library on Merrick and made their way – by cab – here to Jamaica Avenue.

They had met at the library, as planned, after he had done his part. The plan was for her to get to the library by 11 a.m., and just wait. They weren't sure how long it would take for the mail to be delivered to her mother's firm. So it had been a waiting game – and fortunately for a very fidgety Kate Beckett – a short wait. They have allocated fifteen hours here in the timeline – wanting to get to Johanna's office before ten o'clock, knowing that the mail could come anytime between ten in the morning and probably four o'clock in the afternoon. They had silently prayed for a morning delivery. Anything in the afternoon would work, of course. But one of those rare, unexpected night-time deliveries due to whatever mishap could occur in New York City . . . well, that pushes them toward their witching hour. Chariot turning back into pumpkins, driver into a goose, guards into mice.

 _"Fifteen hours and not one second more,"_ comes the reminder in her head from Dr. Windholm. She idly wonders if they shouldn't have given themselves more time, but remembers Castle's caution. The longer they stay in the past, the more likely something could go wrong.

And with _them_ , something going wrong is par for the course.

The relief on her face – along with the smile – when he walked through the library doors at 12:40 was all he needed to see. He had nodded his head, letter in hand, waving it at her as he approached.

So here they sit now, in the cab – meter running – outside the post office.

Now, it's her turn.

Kate will send the reply from Johanna Beckett back to Joe Pulgatti – indicating in a pleasant tone, but in no uncertain terms – that she is not taking the case. The best way to do this, without potentially angering a known Mafiosi? A hiatus of sorts.

She glances again at the note, complete with a well-forged letterhead that Kate remembers all too well. The company logo – a butterfly – signifying new beginnings adorns the top of the letter, with the words 'The Beckett Law Firm, P.L.L.C.' underneath. It was easy enough to re-create on one of the library computers.

Underneath that heading are the words, _'From the cocoon of Johanna Beckett'_. Kate always liked that touch from her mother. Beneath that is the body of the letter that Kate has hand-written. She remembers enough of her mother's very plain handwriting to mimic it, all these years later.

Except it isn't really 'all these years later'. Her mother is alive. She heard her voice.

She begins reading, one last time, out loud to herself.

 _Mr. Pulgatti,_

 _I received your note, and am sorry to inform you that I will not be looking into your case. Pressing personal matters have arisen that will take me out of state for the foreseeable future. Please understand also - my firm has more of a focus on civil cases, and not criminal appeals. Another firm will be your best bet._

She nods her head – again, for the fourth time in the past few minutes – finally comfortable with the letter in its entirety.

"Its fine, Kate," Castle tells her gently.

He knows this will work. It has to work. They can't leave any wiggle room for Pulgatti to reach back out to Johanna, asking for reconsideration. If he does, and she responds, then all of this is for naught.

"He will get the message with this note, believe me," Castle encourages her. He glances at his watch. It is now 1:05 p.m.

"We have ten hours and fifty five minutes left," he reminds her. "Let's get this done, get a bite to eat, and back to the hotel so we can relax before we go back to the park."

She signs her mother's name with a flourish, and places the letter inside the envelope.

"Wait here," she tells him, and opens the door to the cab and walks inside the post office. She'll need to buy a stamp and mail it there. It's important – for their plan – for the letter to be post-marked by a post office here in Queens, where her mother's firm is located. That way when Pulgatti receives the letter, it will be post-marked in Queens, where Johanna's firm is located.

Fifteen minutes later, she walks out of the building, to a waiting Castle sitting in the cab. She slides in, shaking her head.

"Wow, I forgot exactly how inefficient the post office was back in –"

She catches herself, offering the cabbie a quick glance. He returns her look with a confused stare of his own, as he is not exactly sure how this strange woman was going to complete that sentence. All he knows is that – despite their best efforts – they seem a bit odd. Their clothes, for one, and also just a few little things he has caught here and there that they have said.

They remain silent for the remainder of the ride, whispering and giggling amongst themselves. It works, putting the cabbie at ease. Just another couple, probably getting away for some time away from their spouses. Happily married couples don't act like this.

Half an hour later – after a massive traffic jaunt – they arrive at the restaurant just a few blocks from the hotel in Times Square. It's an Italian place, one that will eventually become one of Castle's favorites.

"You're sure _you_ won't show up here," she cautions as they walk inside. She, of course, refers to the 1998 version of Richard Castle. If this is a favorite of his, then they can't risk him coming here this afternoon, of all days.

"No worries," he replies calmly. "I remember Christmas Eve from 1998 very well. Alexis and I are – as of this very moment – tucked safely away inside the loft, making Christmas pancakes," he grins fondly. It's a good memory. And tonight will be their inaugural laser tag tournament. All of that was true, the story that he told Dr. Windholm.

"There's something we have to do, however," he tells her, as they walk in and are shown to a table in the back. He points to the walls of the establishment, and that's when she notices all of the writings on the wall.

"Names," she realizes out loud.

"Virtually every customer who comes here leaves their John Hancock," he replies with a smile. "Memories for a future visit," he continues, picking up the felt pen that sits in the middle of their table, and reaching over to the wall next to the table. He writes their names.

 _Castle and his Beckett._

He encloses the four words inside a heart, and adds today's date, smiling as he views his handiwork, putting the marker back down. He reaches across the table as he sits, taking her hands in his.

Their quiet is broken a minute later, as Kate glances out of the window adjacent to their table.

"Do you really think we did it, babe?" she asks.

"Oh yeah," he replies. "I have no doubt. We intercepted the letter from Pulgatti, and sent a reply from Johanna's office. She's out of state for an undisclosed amount of time on a personal case. She isn't expected back anytime soon. And she has no interest in the case anyway. Not her normal gig."

"You think he will buy it?" Kate asks.

"Absolutely," he tells her. "Because he has no reason not to. He doesn't know Johanna from the man in the moon. He will find someone else. Or he won't."

"But . . . we know he is innocent," she argues, as she had last night.

They both know that the man is in jail, wrongfully accused. Joe Pulgatti was a Mafia enforcer, framed for the death of an undercover cop, Bob Armen. Armen had been looking into the Mafia when he ran afoul of dirty cops, led by John Raglan. As far as the public knows, the undercover cop was discovered, and murdered as part of a Mafia hit. Far from the truth, it was an attempted abduction gone awry, as Raglan and his crew of dirty cops were kidnapping members of the Mafia families – and Armen was considered part of one of the families.

"Kate, we went through this last night," he tells her, once again. "Pulgatti has been wrongly accused. He is innocent of _that_ murder. But he is far from innocent Kate. Wrongly accused does not mean innocent. He has blood on his hands for other many other crimes, and you and I both know that."

She nods her head. Yeah, they went back and forth on this last night.

"Besides," he continues, "if I am choosing between Joe Pulgatti walking free and your mother staying alive . . . well, like I said last night . . . that's no choice at all.

They make the lunch a long one, taking their time, enjoying each other's company, ordering at a snail's pace, and eating even more slowly. They now have hours to kill, and are in no hurry to leave the quaint spot.

Castle doesn't know what Kate is thinking right now, although he has his suspicions. For his part, he knows they have succeeded. He knows this will work. He also knows that making this change has some risks. Risks for him. Risks for them. This is one tiny change, yeah, but it is a huge fork-in-the-road for Kate that she will be avoiding. The whole attorney-to-cop career conversion that Kate went through in their timeline . . . will it still happen? What will that mean? He recalls the words of Dr. Windholm, who promised that they would still have their same memories, their same goals and desires. So he is assuming they will still know each other. They will still love each other. But what else will have changed because of this.

Her words snap him out of his deep thoughts.

"You in there, Castle?" she smiles.

"I'm here, babe," he tells her, returning the smile. "Just deep in thought."

"I can tell," she replies. "Anything you want to share?"

"Not yet," he tells her. "Just musings of a writer," he lies. He doesn't need to add anything negative to the mood right now, which is decidedly upbeat with the woman he loves. He's doing this all for her, after all. He knows that nothing is more important to her than her mother . . . than losing her mother.

"Promise me something," she asks him, reaching across the table.

"Anything."

"Let's come back here," she tells him. "If this really works . . . if it all works out the way we hope . . . this place will be the most special place in the entire city for me, Castle. It will be where we celebrated getting my mom back."

She raises a wine glass to the air, and he smiles, clinking his glass to hers in a toast.

"To Johanna," he tells her.

"To family," she replies, smiling.

.

 ** _Hours later, still Thursday Afternoon – December 24, 1998, 11:56 a.m., Back in Central Park_**

.

"I just thought of something, Castle," Kate exclaims, eyes widening in fear as she gazes at their surroundings here in the dark inside the park. The nearest lamp post is about fifty yards away. If this crazy technology works, they will be zapped back to their timeline any minute now. Zapped being the operative word.

"How exactly are we going to get back again?" she asks. "I mean, the way I understand it, the cylinder back at Kronologix contains the wormhole. But it isn't here. It isn't _now_. So without it, how do we –"

"Not quite," he interrupts, glancing at his watch. "Any minute now, by the way," he tells her excitedly before answering her question.

"Remember, the bracelet – this marker or whatever it is – _it's_ the magic thing-a-ma-job," he reminds her. It's the bracelet that tears us down. But remember, in our timeline, less than twenty seconds have passed. So in our reality, the wormhole is still open. It never closed. Only seconds have passed. The bracelet is programmed, and knows when to return us, before the wormhole closes."

"And you know all of this because . . .?" she asks.

"I don't _know_ anything," he reminds her. "But you know me. I love a good science fiction story. And what the doctor told us just seems to make sense to my admittedly often-jumbled mind."

Suddenly he hears a slight popping noise. Kate has heard it also. She's about to say something, when a sharp, indescribable pain jolts her body. Her eyes freeze as she opens her mouth. A sharp scream leaves her lips before she vanishes into thin air, leaving a white residue form of her body in place. As it begins to dissipate in the wind with the snow, Castle himself screams in pain. Two seconds later, he, too is gone.

.

 ** _Saturday Evening – April 27, 2013, 7:47 p.m., At the Kronologix Facility in South Brooklyn_**

.

The screaming stops as Dr. Sandra Windholm watches the couple on the floor of the transport cylinder. She smiles as she watches two looks of pure joy paint their faces, as they fall into a tight embrace, still on their knees.

"We're back!" Castle exclaims, immediately recognizing his surroundings in the transport room at Kronologix.

"It worked, Castle! It really worked," Kate cries, holding onto his face with both hands. "I can't believe it."

"Believe it, "Dr. Windholm tells them, opening the cylinder and stepping inside. She helps them both to their feet, and notices the wincing on Castle's face. She makes a mental note, as she catches his eyes and the subtle shaking of his head.

At the same time, Kate quickly clutches her chest – just for a second – and the sensation is gone just as quickly.

"Is everything okay, Miss Beckett?" the doctor asks. She has noticed Kate clutching her chest. She has trained herself to look for these little nuances upon a traveler's return.

Castle glances at the doctor quickly. He has noticed something, himself. She referred to Kate as 'Miss Becket'. Virtually every other time, she has referred to Kate as 'Detective'. He doesn't have time to consider it further.

"Fine, fine," Kate tells her, glancing at Castle. They're back. They have made it. And now, more than anything else, Kate wants definitive proof that their trip, their efforts . . . and Castle's two million dollars have not been wasted, in vain.

"We should get going, Castle," she tells him.

"Did you see what you wanted to see?" Dr. Windholm asks Castle, now wondering what the real intent of their trip was. Kate Beckett seems in a hurry all of the sudden, very unlike pretty much every other traveler who has been sent back in time. Normally, travelers are bursting at the seams to discuss what they have seen and experienced. Kate Beckett, however, apparently wants to put as much distance between herself and this place as possible. Then again, on the other hand, she wonders why would Kate Beckett be here in the first place?

"Yes, we did," a much more relaxed Richard Castle replies. "Just glad to be back. You know, for a second there as we were waiting, I began to wonder if we really could come back."

"A normal concern, Mr. Castle," the red-head tells him. "We've almost completely perfected this. I would not have sent you back had I any real concerns."

"You say 'almost'," he wonders aloud. "That's a little concerning in itself."

"No form of transportation is one hundred percent foolproof, Mr. Castle," she cautions. "Airplanes crash, cars collide or break down, trains derail. Nothing is foolproof – either through human or mechanical failure. Yet we depend upon those modes of travel every day. This will be no different."

Although he sees the truth in her words, Richard Castle also gets the feeling he is listening to a practiced but still a work-in-progress speech, part of a presentation, the answer to anticipated questions that will be asked during the IPO phase. And that's not even considering the government oversight that undoubtedly will rear its head in the very near future.

He simply nods his head in understanding – if not total agreement. Regardless, they have made it back. And now it is time to get out of here and see if there has been any fruit to their labor.

"Thank you, Dr. Windholm," he tells her. "Well worth my investment. And I will look forward to future discussions."

The doctor smiles, pleased at this development. Future investments are always potential realities. It was no surprise to her that Richard Castle, of all people, would want to go back into the past. Knowing his background, it makes sense. Now, knowing that he had the funds for such an endeavor? Yeah, that was a bit surprising, yes, but she is not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Besides, knowing that Mr. Richard Castle may be one who can be tapped for further funding is a welcome bonus this evening.

"That's good to hear, Mr. Castle," she replies.

The trio says their goodbyes, and Castle and Kate are – minutes later – in a cab headed back to the city. Castle glances over at his companion, who now has tears streaming down her face as she stares down at her iPhone. He glances down, and smiles as he sees what she is reading. She has googled 'Johanna Beckett attorney'. The results returned have reduced the detective to tears. She struggles to contain sobs of joy.

Castle sees a picture of Johanna – now almost twenty years older than Kate remembers her – with slightly graying hair. Kate is reading an article about her mother. Johanna is still an attorney, although "The Beckett Law Firm" is considerably larger now, and taking on more pro-bono cases. The article refers to a husband – James Beckett – who is a professor at Columbia University, teaching law. It brings a smile to Kate's face, but a frown to Castle's.

 _"He's changed careers,"_ Castle thinks to himself, now suddenly concerned about what other changes they may have caused with their simple intervention. He glances at Kate, realizing that she doesn't see it yet. Oh, she sees that her father is now a professor, but the magnitude of what this could possibly mean has yet to hit her. For now, she is too caught up – understandably – in the fact that she has her mother back.

She closes the browser on her phone, and dials a phone number from memory. Their old home phone number. It's a chance . . .

"Hello?" a female voice answers.

"Mom?" Kate offers weakly, grasping Castle's free hands for support.

"Katie!" Johanna Beckett exclaims. "What a pleasant surprise. How's my favorite daughter," she chuckles.

"Your only daughter is doing great, Mom," Kate replies happily, unable to contain her tears of joy. "Just good to . . . it's good to hear your voice, Mom," she manages, struggling to keep her voice from breaking.

"Well, Kendall would take exception to that, darling," Johanna laughs.

"Kendall?" Kate questions, losing the battle to keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Yes, Kendall, your sister," Johanna smiles. "Come on Kate, I know she's a geeky middle schooler now – but she's not out of mind," she continues, laughing.

"Right, right, I'm just pulling your leg, Mom," Kate manages, fresh tears streaming down her face.

She has a baby sister!

"How's life at the office, dear?" her mother asks. "And when are we going to see you again. It's been a couple of months now since you last visited."

"Tonight," Kate answers quickly, suddenly wondering how close she and her parents are – or are not – in this new, revised timeline.

"Oh, that's wonderful," Johanna tells her. "I have meatloaf left over from dinner. Jim will be thrilled to see you, too."

"I can't wait, Mom," Kate replies, happily.

"You do remember where we live, I assume," Johanna laughs. "Since you don't visit all that much and seem to have forgotten all about your sister."

Kate laughs, playing along, but suddenly feeling pangs of disappointment in herself. She doesn't visit all that much? Her mom has never been killed now, yet somehow she has taken her living parents – her mom – for granted? Living in the same city?

"Okay Mom, refresh my memory again," Kate says, offering a false chuckle that she doesn't feel. At all.

"Katie Beckett, we've only lived in this house for thirty-five years!" Johanna replies, her voice rising in laughter.

"I know, Mom," Kate replies, thankfully. "I'm just joshing with you. I will see you soon." She regrets using the term immediately, as she feels Castle momentarily tense up. It's almost imperceptible. Almost, but she catches it. She reaches over and squeezes his hand.

"That's wonderful, Katie," her mother exclaims, barely able to contain her happiness. "Your father and I look forward to seeing our little prodigal."

"Oh Mom" Kate concludes in a low voice that is now breaking. "I love you so much."

Johanna Beckett is about to reply, but she is listening to dead air now. She shakes her head in bewilderment, then excitedly heads to the kitchen to begin warming dinner back up.

Back in the moving cab, Kate hangs up, her hands shaking and glances at Castle, who is smiling. Kate lets out a squeal, stomping her feet on the cab floor quickly.

"Who is Kendall?" he asks in a low whispered tone.

"Apparently, I have a sister," Kate beams, whispering in return. She notes the lack of shared happiness on Castle's face.

"What is it Rick?" she asks. "What's wrong?"

"Your father is no longer in law, but he's a professor. You have a sister," he replies. "What else is different now?" he asks aloud, a slight bit of alarm in his voice as he glances up to the front seat at the cab driver, who seems disinterested to the conversation occurring behind him.

"Well, evidently, this _'me'_ isn't all that close to her parents," she notes sadly. "A problem I plan on correcting immediately."

The cab ride to the 12th Precinct is quicker now during the evening, and quiet. Castle has grown detached, concern etches his features. Kate is oblivious to this, however. Her entire focus is on the family that has been returned to her . . . with a sister to boot.

Soon an excited Kate Beckett exits the cab, rushing into the precinct. She wants to get to her computer and find out more. And she wants to call her mother – not from a cab with ears – but from one of the safe conference rooms. From there, a quick trip to the house – after she verifies where they live. But wait, she's already verified that they still live in the same house, per her mother's words. The house Jim Beckett gave up in their old timeline, after Johanna's death.

 _"Don't overthink things, Kate,"_ she tells herself.

The duo walk into the precinct, and Kate heads straight for the elevator, feeling happier than she has in almost two decades.

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" a voice calls out to her.

"Hey Sarge," Kate replies happily, not really hearing the question, nor turning her head so he can get a good look at her. Castle, however, stops in his tracks, as he immediately recognizes what is happening.

"We're just heading upstairs for a bit," Kate tells him as she continues toward the elevator.

"I don't think so," the sergeant tells her, as he eyes the couple warily. A couple of uniformed officers step forward as he speaks, blocking their path.

"Guys? What's going on?" Kate asks, now fearing a sudden pang of fear in her chest. It's almost like these guys don't know her. Or Castle.

"You tell me, sister," one of the uniformed officers beckons. "Civilians aren't allowed past this point without authorization."

"Civilians?" Kate bellows, then catches herself, her eyes widening. It hits her hard, and Castle is there to grab ahold of her.

"Oh! Miss Beckett," one of the cops exclaims. "I'm so sorry. I . . . Sarge . . . its Miss Beckett,"

"Beckett?" the sergeant asks aloud, peering atop his bifocals, now getting a better look.

"Oh, I'm sorry ma'am," he mutters, and there is something in his voice that Castle cannot place. It's nothing good though. Kate, however, has frozen in place now.

"Castle, I'm not a cop here anymore!" she whispers to him with hushed realization.

 _"That's what Mom meant when she asked how things were 'at the office'",_ she realizes as he begins to drag her away out of the precinct before things escalate. Kates mind is racing now, as she realizes that Johanna didn't ask about things 'at the station' or 'at the precinct'. There is a new time continuum in effect now. Things are very different. She hates when Castle is right like this.

Castle makes a few clumsy remarks about being sorry and quickly exits the precinct, Kate in tow, thankfully not taking on any further flak from the officers there. They reach the street before he lets her go. She shakes herself off, and glances at Castle who is now glancing down at his phone, clearing busy.

"What are you doing?" she asks, her eyes now showing the fear that is rising in the back of her throat and threatening to choke her breath away. He fights the same emotion as he swipes his finger across the face of his iPhone.

"Googling myself," he tells her. "I suggest you do the same. We need to find out what else is different now."

He frowns, and glances her way. The excitement both felt less than an hour ago has now been replaced with cautious anticipation, which borders on dread.

He hails a cab for her, and as she slides in, he closes the door without her.

"You're not coming with me?" she asks, surprised.

"No. You need to go to your parents. And while you're on the way, google yourself and see where you live. It's highly possible you don't live with me. More than that – you're not a cop. It's possible you have never even met me in this timeline. We're lucky that we went back together, and still even know each other now," he tells her in rapid, whispered tones.

"Go see your mother," he finishes. "Then call me."

He bangs the top of the cab roof, telling the cabbie to take off. Suddenly the vehicles launches itself away from the curb. He watches the retreating and very concerned face of Kate Beckett staring back at him through the rear window until it is out of sight.

He glances upwards at the heavens, saying a silent prayer that really has no words or thoughts. It's just a prayer of pure fear and dread. He has no idea what he is walking into with this.

He takes a couple of deep breaths, and then hails a cab for himself. Sliding in, he offers the cab driver an address.

"595 Broome Street," he says quickly, watching the cabbie pull punch in digits on the meter. Soon he is in motion, glancing out the window, the fear now clutching hard at his chest . . . and an unwelcome and unfamiliar pain now aching in his left hip.


	8. Chapter 8

**Kairos – Chapter 8**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 ** _Saturday Evening – April 27, 2013, 8:52 p.m., Richard Castle's Loft_**

.

Richard Castle exits the cab warily, and approaches his building with caution, glancing here and there. He can't stifle the fear of dread that has been building solidly, over the past fifteen or so minutes. With every street he has passed, every block – the fear becomes more and more tangible.

"Okay, this is stupid," he tells himself, shaking his head. "Why wouldn't I still live here," he says softly to himself, but out loud. After all, it's her reality that has changed. It's her reality that is different now, not his.

Right?

Despite his earlier bravado, he has not googled himself. Shaking fingers just wouldn't work. And call it superstition or whatever, but he has decided to just walk in like nothing has changed. Which he hopes is the case.

He walks through the front door with slightly renewed confidence, into the building lobby, and is relieved to see a friendly and smiling face recognize him.

"Mr. Castle," Mike Monroe offers from his sitting perch behind the security desk. "What brings you back home so early?" The man's voice is tinged with disappointment, which Castle quickly notes and files away. Perhaps things aren't quite the same here either.

"Ah, nothing going on tonight, Mike," Castle lies to the man who obviously still knows him fairly well.

"Yeah, but you just left less than an hour ago," the security man tells him, glancing at his watch. "And you get out so rarely . . . I was just kind of hoping you'd find a good time with someone out there tonight."

Castle stares at the man, trying to formulate a sentence, but even his writer's mind has hit a brick wall on this one. Evidently – in this new timeline – Richard Castle is something of a recluse, rarely getting out. Perhaps he should have googled himself after all.

"Go on, go on, have a good night upstairs," Mike tells him, his words showing the compassion of a real friend. "If you can't sleep, come back down. I've left our game from Tuesday as we left it," Mike says, pointing to the chess set that sits behind him.

"I might take you up on that, my friend," Castle offers warmly, and shoves what he hopes the security man doesn't notice are rapidly shaking hands into his pants pocket and heads to the elevator. He punches the button for his floor and fidgets the entire ride up. Exiting the elevator car, he walks slowly to his front door, almost frightened now at what lies behind the door.

With silent trepidation, he places the key into the slot with nervous and shaking fingers. The key works, thank God. The door swings open, and the change is immediate and startling.

The front entry area is darker, more foreboding. Far less inviting than his home should be. There is almost a brooding atmosphere hanging over the living area as he enters. He can almost feel the oppression. Footsteps draw his gaze toward the left, where his heart leaps at the sight of his mother.

"Richard, darling," she greets him, smiling.

 _"Well, so far so good,"_ he thinks to himself. _"If Mother is here haunting the house, then things are normal."_ He manages a calming chuckle.

It is horribly premature.

"Hello, Mother," Castle asks. "Where's Alexis?"

"Who?" Martha replies with a raised and highly confused eyebrow. "Is that a joke, Richard?"

"That's not funny, Mother," he deadpans. "Not today. My daughter. Where is she?

"You're right," Martha replies testily, her tone matching the seriousness of her face. "That's not very funny at all. Alexis has been gone for a long time now, Richard. Almost fourteen years. I must say, your sense of humor has reached a new low. Even for you."

He is about to reply when he notices a large picture of . . . Meredith? And Alexis?

It's on – or rather, above – the mantle. It's in an expensive frame. His eyes are drawn to the inscription on the plaque at the bottom of the frame.

 _Never Forgotten_

His eyes grow larger, as he moves to stand next to the large picture, which is some five feet by just over three and a half feet, hanging above the mantle. He blinks a few times, shaking his head, his mind now rattling off the possibilities – none of them good – as to why a memorial picture of his first wife and daughter would be in his loft, hanging in the most prominent position.

Martha moves up behind him, silently, and unknowingly begins to answer his questions. She places her hands on his shoulders, softly holding on to him.

"It's been over thirteen years now, Richard," Martha begins, compassion in her voice, and he senses this is not the first time he and his mother have had this conversation in this obviously very different timeline.

"Thirteen years of no writing," she continues. "Thirteen years of mourning. You've gone from being a promising, best-selling author to being the librarian at the city library – and that only a pity offering from a grateful fan in the mayor."

She pauses, waiting for the usual caustic retort from her son, and is surprised when he does not provide her with one. She raises a suspecting eyebrow before continuing, now with a softer tone and a hand on his shoulder.

"I am just saying, Richard . . . again, I know . . . but you have to re-enter this thing called life," she tells him, her voice breaking. Her heart has broken – irreparably – long ago over her son.

Suddenly, Mike Monroe's words – his _exact_ words – now come back to Castle's consciousness.

 _"I was just kind of hoping you'd find a good time with someone out there tonight."_

The key word, of course, being 'someone'. Yeah, 'recluse' it seems to be.

"You aren't living," Martha continues. "I know Meredith was the love of your life. I know how much she meant to you. I know how much you loved Alexis. I did, too, Richard. But they are gone, Richard. For over thirteen years now. And Meredith wouldn't want –"

She sees the emotion in his eyes, and mistakes the shock she sees in his face for the complete and utter sadness that she has come to know and see all too often. She increases the pressure with her hands on his shoulders, turning him to face her.

"She wouldn't want you to just drift aimlessly like this. Yes, she loved you. But she loved your works as well. She loved your mind, your imagination, and how you could put those wonderful thoughts onto paper. She loved your stories, Richard. And she would want you to write a new story for yourself. And for her memory."

It's too much now for Richard Castle, who is now beginning to piece together what Mike Monroe was insinuating downstairs with what he is learning up here.

"And the memory of Alexis, Richard," she concludes, but he is already in full retreat.

"I . . . I will be back, Mother," he stammers, offering her a kiss on the cheek quickly – another action that surprises her. Before she can respond, he is rushing out the front door.

"Richard!" she shouts after him. "You just got here!"

He doesn't hear her words. He is gone, and more than just physically. No thoughts are in his head as the realization of Martha's words knock him backward. He's heading downstairs now, and he doesn't even bother with the elevator. Instead he opts for the stairwell down the corridor, and taking them two and a time for the first flight, stinging tears burning his eyes.

He stops after the first flight, almost tripping as he grabs a hold of the old, rusty railing in the stairwell, now lightheaded and sweating profusely, finally letting out a loud, frightening sob, a wail that echoes in the stairwell.

Alexis isn't here. She no longer exists in this timeline.

.

 ** _Minutes ago, Saturday Evening – April 27, 2013, 8:47 p.m., Outside a Manhattan High-Rise Apartment_**

.

Kate Beckett stands outside the mammoth structure, gazing upward at the modern, forty-story building. She closes her eyes for a brief instant, opening them again just to make sure she is seeing correctly.

"I live _here_?" she says aloud, questioning the search results that gave the address of one Kate Beckett, attorney-at-law.

No, that's not accurate. That's not accurate in the least.

Make that Kate Beckett, Assistant District Attorney for New York.

Her heart sank some ten minutes ago as she had searched the internet – looking for herself – while the cab driver whisked her along the still-bustling streets of New York. Her new reality has knocked her breath out, and for a few minutes, her cabbie wondered if he'd have to take the hyperventilating woman to the nearest hospital. Like her companion miles away, the realization of her new reality are almost too much for her.

She never became a cop.

It makes sense. Her mother never died, so Kate never left Stanford. Instead, she continued on with her education on the west coast, going to - and finishing - law school out there, and ultimately becoming an attorney.

Like her mother.

She had shuddered with the ramifications. She's an attorney. The assistant district attorney. And her world has changed.

She's not a cop. Which means no 12th Precinct.

No Javier Esposito.

No Kevin Ryan.

No Lanie.

No Victoria Gates.

She's not the youngest female ever to make detective in New York City. She's not the highly-respected homicide detective upon whom she has built her value, her identity upon over the past decade.

The circle of friends – small as it may be – that have consumed her life for the past decade are no longer a part of her life. For all she knows, none of them even know her. Oh, they may know _of her_. As the city's assistant DA. But not as Kate Beckett.

Not as their friend.

But she has her mother back. And a baby sister.

Now, here she stands, outside the building where she apparently lives – and lives well at that. In a moment of huge irony, the tears fall freely down her face. Her very different life is – apparently – also without a certain novelist. Online, there was no mention of her in a relationship with Richard Castle. Further, in a realization that had her clutching her chest in horror, there was also no mention of Nikki Heat, no mention of Richard Castle at all. She had to do a separate search on Castle to discover that now, he is nothing more than as a non-descript author, who once was – decades ago – a promising best-selling writer. And apparently, now he is a widower. A man seldom seen or heard from. The full ramifications of that knowledge have yet to descend upon her.

The article also mentioned that she lives in Manhattan – not in a loft on Broome Street – and a further search has brought her here. To this building.

Home.

She enters the expansive lobby cautiously, and is greeted with a cold but cordial greeting from the two security guards who are on duty behind the large, circular desk. Video monitors adorn a half circle of their seating area, giving them unobstructed views throughout various areas of the high rise.

 _"I can afford this?"_ she wonders, _"On a city salary?"_

"Hey guys," she offers weakly. "I seemed to have lost my key. Can one of you help me?"

"It will take a while to make you another one," Stanley tells her. That's the name on his badge at least. "I'll take you up to your apartment in the meantime."

"Thank you, Stanley," she replies. "I really appreciate this." She notices the surprise on the man's face. It makes her wonder what kind of relationship she has with the people here. The fact that she doesn't see her parents all that often is still in the back of her mind. Is she really that different in this timeline?

But this is still _her_ timeline.

Isn't it?

She enters the elevator car in front of Stanley, and steps back, allowing him to enter, her mind still reeling from the knowledge she picked up from online searches.

Kate Beckett, in this reality, is a fast-rising star in the legal world, having been plucked away from the west coast by an ex-district attorney who has become her mentor. An ex-district attorney who parlayed his local success with that position into a much more lucrative – and powerful – career in politics.

She had been shaken to her core to learn that one United States Senator William Bracken had taken her under his wing, becoming her mentor. Most rumors consider it likely that the young woman is headed for much bigger things in the nation's capital. Apparently, Bracken, a former Assistant DA himself, took a liking to the young protégé from Stanford, and is grooming her for something much larger.

The elevator ascent upward takes more than a few seconds, and with each passing floor, Kate's heartbeat jumps. She has no idea what is waiting for her upstairs. They pass the tenth floor. Then the twentieth. Then the thirtieth floor.

 _"So this is what it feels like to be Alice,"_ she thinks to herself as the elevator continues its smooth march upward.

Finally slowing, the elevator stops at floor thirty-seven, and the door opens. She steps off the elevator, and then waits for Stanley to exit.

"I'm following you," she offers with a smile, trying to give the man some pleasantries that she suspects that this timeline's Kate does not usually provide. He nods his head with a slightly confused smile, and takes her down the hallway to a door with the number 3704.

He places the key in the slot, and then opens the door for her.

"Here you go, Miss Beckett," he remarks, not bothering to enter the dwelling. "You have a wonderful night."

"Thank you, Stanley," she replies, reaching into her purse and offering the man a twenty-dollar bill. She notes the stunned look he gives her, glancing back and forth between her and the bill.

"Please," she tells him softly. "Take it. You've been a great help to me tonight."

"Okay, Miss Beckett," he replies with a subtle shake of his head. She would have missed it if she weren't so on-guard right now. He walks away, offering her one final look back. She waves at him and closes the door.

And her world collapses.

"Hello, Darling," he greets her, wearing a bathrobe that hangs open – just barely - as her eyes widen in horrific realization.

"Elizabeth is on the west coast this evening – she doesn't return until tomorrow night," Senator Bracken tells her. "I thought I'd surprise you. I have to fly back to D.C. in the morning, but we have all night until then."

She faints dead away, falling backward into the now closed door before darkness descends upon her.


	9. Chapter 9

**Kairos – Chapter 9**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 ** _Saturday Evening – April 27, 2013, 9:07 p.m., Outside Richard Castle's Loft_**

.

"Pumpkin," Richard Castle says softly, as tears drips from his nose to the ground below. The prospect of never seeing Alexis Castle again has only now completely assaulted him. He stands on wobbly knees, at the corner, two blocks away from his loft building. He's been walking aimlessly for a few minutes now, before coming to a stop here outside the small deli, his hands bracing himself against the window. Sure, the sight of the disheveled man in tears is more than a bit intrusive for the guests sitting inside at the window, but they are of no concern to him at the moment.

Alexis isn't here.

She doesn't exist anymore. She's dead.

Somehow, and for the life of him, he cannot figure it out, but somehow the change that has brought Johanna back has taken Alexis away. And Meredith.

But how?

He glances into the deli at the busy and preoccupied faces there, and notices the couple right below him, staring up at him. He glances away, and continues onward, moving further down Broome Street, putting as much distance between himself and his . . . his home as possible. Without Alexis, that place is anything but 'home' anymore.

 _This reality_ is anything but home.

His first thought is to call Dr. Sandra Windholm, and ask her just what in the hell has happened. But how would she know?

Now, however, a few things are clicking into place . . . pieces of a puzzle that he didn't recognize before. How the doctor seemed . . . almost surprised to see Kate Beckett when they returned. How she didn't refer to Kate as 'detective'. That makes sense now. Kate isn't a detective here. She was a detective when they left. Less than half a minute later, she is . . . something else. Unlike Kate, he chose not to use his time in the cab searching online for answers. Still, his mind starts piecing things together. Why would a widower ex-novelist and . . . whoever Kate Beckett is in this timeline want to go back in time?

And what were they doing together in the first place?

Yeah, this may have made sense to the Dr. Windholm they left behind a couple of hours ago in a very different timeline. But not to the Dr. Windholm they returned to less than twenty seconds later in this timeline.

"My God, what have we done?" he says aloud, only now realizing what the 'ripple effect' actually could mean.

"Alexis," he repeats, choking back a sob.

The words of his mother come back to him.

 _"You've gone from being a best-selling author to being the librarian at the city library."_

He's the librarian now, for crying out loud. Not that there is anything wrong with being a librarian. For a moment, his writer's mind brings up images of a mini-series from a few years earlier. Yeah, being the 'librarian' in that series was something to write home about. But he knows fantasy from reality.

At least he thinks he does. That was before today. Now? He's not quite so sure anymore.

Through teary eyes, he gazes down at his phone, pulling up his name and the word 'library' in the search parameters and is rewarded quickly. Sure enough, he is the librarian at the New York Public Library.

He continues to walk until an empty cab drives by, and he hails the vehicle with a loud whistle. The car pulls over some twenty feet in front of him, and he jogs up, opening the back door and sliding inside.

"The library," he requests.

"Fifth and 42nd?" the cabbie asks.

"That's the one," Castle offers meekly, his voice breaking. He knows he needs to pull this together, but doesn't know how. But he realizes that the one place he knows that should be a safe haven for him for a brief period of time – a place he shouldn't be bothered – is the library.

He glances at his watch. It will be closed now. And he has no key. No matter. He needs to find out what in the world has happened, and as long as there is still an internet in this time period, thankfully, the library will be a good place to settle down for some discovery time.

The cab ride is quick, and Castle jumps out, paying the cab driver and moving quickly to the front door. It's locked, as expected, but thankfully a security guard is there. He comes to the door.

"We're closed," he says. "Come back when . . . Oh, Rick, it's you. I'm sorry, I didn't realize . . ."

The man unlocks the door, and Castle quickly scans the badge. Walter Jameson.

Jameson.

Okay, now the universe is just screwing with him. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Thanks, Walter," Castle tells the young man, trying to work up a smile. The man looks to be in his late twenties. He's noted that Walter addressed him using his first name. That's good.

"Forget your card again?" Walter asks.

"Don't sound so surprised," Castle offers, testing to see what kind of relationship he has with this young man.

"Then don't keep forgetting it," Walter smiles amiably. "And since when did we become so formal? Walter? I guess I need to start calling you Richard. Or Mr. Castle. Or maybe Dick."

"Okay, Dick is going a bit too far now," Castle chuckles, managing a bit of the humor he is known for. Or is he? That doesn't jive with what Martha has told him. Still, meeting Walter is good.

 _"Okay, so I have a good, bantering relationship with this guy, Walt,"_ he thinks to himself. _"Good. Some sense of normalcy at least."_

The two men walk inside, as a very distracted Richard Castle struggles to keep up with whatever it is that Walter Jameson is saying about the New York Yankees. Suddenly another pang of panic grips Castle, as he realizes that he doesn't even know where he is supposed to be going. He has no idea where his office – or cubicle – is. Then an idea strikes him.

"I got a call while I was at home – I'm hoping it was just a prank. But just in case, do you mind walking me to my . . ."

He leaves the sentence hanging out there, hoping Walter bites. He does, thankfully.

"Not at all, Rick," Walter replies excitedly. Either Walter just enjoys getting some attention from the ex-novelist-slash-librarian here, or these two men have a very cordial and casual relationship. Castle is opting for the latter.

"So, you ran out of your house after getting a prank call, and didn't even bother to grab your keys," Walter laughs, shaking his head.

"Laugh it up," Castle says softly, trying to determine what kind of role to play with the young man so as not to tip him off. So far, so good.

The security guard takes him to an office on the second floor – they walk up the stairs and hang a quick left, where Castle learns for certain that he is – in fact – _the_ librarian of the institution. He manages a short, haunting laugh, nervously nodding his head. It figures that if he isn't writing books, then he is a facilitator for others to read books.

Stanley opens his office, and allows Castle to walk in. He doesn't follow.

"If you need anything else, just let me know, eh?" Walter tells him.

"Okay, Walt," Castle replies. "And thanks, again."

Walter is a few steps removed from the office before Castle quickly calls out to him.

"Hey, Walt?" he calls.

"Yeah, man," the security man replies as he steps back into the office.

"I'm going to be here for a while, I think, so don't worry about me."

"Roger that," Walter tells him, smiling with a short wave. He walks out, leaving Castle on his own. Castle immediately starts walking throughout the office, taking in as much information as he can. He glances around the office, noticing the Master's Degree from New York University for Library Sciences, and nods his head. Evidently, he went back to school. He sees his own books on one of the shelves as well and frowns. There aren't a lot of them there.

He moves to the large desk which backs up to a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that gives him visual access to the first floor below. After taking in the sight, he sits at the desk, and turns to face the large Apple iMac computer there. He enters his credentials, hoping this version of Richard Castle thinks like he does. The user ID works. The password doesn't.

Of course it doesn't. There is no 'pumpkin' here. And this version of Richard Castle doesn't know 'Beckett' from a hole in the wall. He begins to panic, as none of the passwords that come to mind work. "Martha" doesn't work. "Rodgers" doesn't work. He wonders how many tries he has before he gets locked out. Then it hits him. This version of Richard Castle had a different love. Had a different soulmate.

He enters the word 'Meredith', and is granted access. He smiles wistfully, fully aware of the universe's ironies now. With shaking fingers, he pulls up the Safari browser, and types 'google'.

He then enters their names.

'Meredith Castle Richard Castle'

Minutes later, the tears are streaming down his face, dripping onto the desk below. He's completely unaware.

He finds that Meredith Castle had been killed in late 1999, in a freak car accident of sorts. Meredith had been pregnant at the time. She was just arriving to a local bookstore, with Alexis. His wife was getting ready to open the door to the establishment to walk in and find her husband who was signing books at the time. A cab driver had lost control of his vehicle, when he brakes failed. He was dropping off a passenger[KB1] , who wanted her book signed, to the same book store. When the brakes failed, he swerved to avoid parked cars there and unwittingly plowed into the pregnant Mrs. Castle and her young daughter.

The passenger of the taxi was interviewed to see if her story collaborated with that of the cab driver. The fact that it did is of no solace to Richard Castle. No, it is _the name_ of the passenger interviewed that caused a sob to escape his throat, as he hung his head in emotional agony.

"You've got to be kidding me!" he mutters aloud at no one in particular.

 _Johanna Beckett_.

His mind struggles to process the sheer irony, the utter cruelty that fate has displayed.

Their goal – he and Kate – had been to go back in time, and save Johanna Beckett. They had succeeded. But because they had succeeded, because her mother lived . . . Meredith died. Alexis died. And evidently, married life was good for Mr. and Mrs. Castle, because they were expecting another child together.

Because Johanna was never killed, Meredith and Alexis died. If Johanna had never been around to go to the bookstore that day, that particular cab would not have been there to do its damage.

He sits, his entire body shaking as he processes all of this new information, cursing anything and everything now that comes to mind. Cursing the sheer cruelty of the universe. Cursing himself for thinking of bringing Johanna Beckett back in the first place. And – God help him – cursing himself for chasing after one Kate Beckett all this time. He always figured that she and her unholy quest for her mother would be the death of him.

But the death of his daughter? Alexis?

It's too much for him, as the librarian for the New York Library can only drop his head into his hands, weeping loudly in his office as he breaks down. He vaguely hears his phone ringing in his pocket. It doesn't matter who it is. Nothing matters anymore.

Alexis is gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Kairos – Chapter 10**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Saturday Evening – April 27, 2013, 8:57 p.m., A few minutes ago at Kate Beckett's High Rise Manhattan Apartment_**

.

"Are you all right, baby?"

She hears his voice – it is a familiar voice. It is a completely unwanted voice. It doesn't belong here. Not in her home. And not in such damn close proximity to her face. She feels – and smells – his breath on her. It's nauseating, and it takes everything not to throw up right there on the spot as she regains consciousness.

He's placed a cold, wet rag on her forehead. She blinks a few times until the blur fades, and it is his face that comes into clear view.

William Bracken.

"What? Wha-" she begins.

"Shh, darling," he interrupts, thinking she is wondering what just happened. In reality, she is wondering far more than that. What in the hell is he doing in her house? Then it hits her, and the bile in the back of her throat makes a sudden reappearance as she realizes what is happening. The articles online didn't tell the entire story. He is far more than just her mentor. She's under more than just his wing.

They're having an affair.

She's his mistress.

"Oh dear God," she moans, pushing the cold rag away from her forehead, and struggling to her feet. He tries to restrain her.

"Don't move," he tells her. "That was quite a fall you took. Don't move too quickly."

"I'm okay . . . I'm okay," she manages, now thinking quickly. She's got to get out of here. But how? Even in her state of distress, she is still together enough to realize that she can't do anything drastically out of character. That, and she has no idea what kind of man Bracken is. She has no idea how he would react. All she knows is that he has no problems keeping a mistress.

Then again, apparently she has no problem sleeping her way into influence . . . or affluence.

Then hit hits her – again.

Her mother. Dinner.

Thank you, God.

"I . . . I have to go," she tells him, gently pulling away from him. "I am having dinner with Mom and Dad," she tells him. "I just came here to get a bottle of wine."

Her mind instantly replays the scene when she walked in. He said that his wife – Elizabeth – was out of town. The fact that he mentioned that means that his wife's trip was a last minute thing. He wasn't expecting to be here. More, this timeline's Kate wasn't expecting him to be here.

That will be her out.

"I'm sorry . . . babe," she offers, and it kills her to utter that word to him. "I had no idea you would be here tonight," and the fact that it is the complete truth allows her passion to sing through loud and clear. She tries to steady herself as she stands, and barely makes it.

"I set this up with Mom and Dad, and I'm already late," she tells him as she walks quickly, groggily, toward the refrigerator, hoping that this version of Kate Beckett keeps a bottle or two of red wine in the fridge. She opens the door and breathes a sigh of relief at the Merlot that sits on the bottom shelf. She smiles, recalling Castle's adverse original reaction to her taste for heavily chilled red wines.

She grabs the bottle, and quickly makes her way to the front door. In what she will later consider her finest acting job – in a long line of acting roles she has had to play as a cop – she comes alongside the Senator quickly, grabbing his chin and pulling his face down to her. She closes her eyes, holds her breath . . . and kisses him. Deeply. It has to be convincing.

She has no intentions of returning here tonight.

"You know I would rather be here with you," she tells him as she pulls away, her voice low and drawn out, letting her forefinger run a trail down his chin, to his chest.

"But I promised Mom," she continues, almost pouting now. "And she's already reminded me how little time I spend there. You understand, don't you baby?"

She can tell the man is disappointed, but yeah, he understands. The fact that he has surprised her here and that she wasn't planning on staying long makes perfect sense to him.

"I should have called," he tell her. She doesn't give him time to change his mind.

"That would have ruined the surprise. Now I have ruined it. I'm so sorry. Forgive me?" she purrs meekly.

"Of course, darling," he tells her. "Just don't accuse me of never trying to keep things interesting."

Not knowing exactly how to respond to that, she decides to say nothing. She blows him a kiss, and is out the door, bottle in hand.

She makes a quick sprint to the stairway exit. No, she's not going to go down thirty-seven flights of stairs. But neither is she going to make it that far in the elevator.

She gets to the 36th floor before it explodes. With heaving gusts of breath, she vomits in the stairwell corner. Anything to get the taste, the stench of the man she hates above all others out of her mouth, out of her lungs, out of her throat.

She stands, bent over, heaving until she empties her stomach completely. Light-headed, she grabs on to the railing of the stairwell, eyes clenched shut until she can gather herself.

She wipes her mouth with her jacket sleeve – yeah, that's not going to work, and falls back into a sitting position on one of the stairs. She sits there, eyes closed, breathing deeply, for a few minutes more.

"Shit," she mutters, reliving the past few minutes in her apartment just a floor above her, wondering how the universe could be so callous, so calculating as to throw her into William Bracken's bed.

 _"In any universe, some people are just destined to meet."_

She laughs hauntingly now at the words Castle had shared with her during the wee morning hours not even a full year ago, when she showed up on his doorstep, wet and alone. She'd missed Alexis' graduation. She'd been hanging by her fingertips from a rooftop, mere seconds from death. She'd gone off on a foolish quest once again, and this time, she barely survived – literally – by her fingertips. They'd made love that night and into the morning – their first time . . . times. And she had asked how they had managed to finally do it, finally come together. She'd asked how unlikely it was that they'd even met.

His words had been about them. Turns out, they could just as easily about Kate and a certain Senator.

Her bearings intact, she stands slowly, taking a final deep breath, and heads inside, walking through the stairwell door on the thirty-sixth floor, and makes her way down the hallway to the elevator. When she gets to the lobby, the elevator door opens, and she exits quickly. Stanley is quickly around from his desk, inquiring about her.

"Are you all right, Miss Beckett?" he asks. "Is everything okay?"

She wonders for a moment what he could be talking about, but then notices two things quickly. Cop habits die hard, evidently.

First, the other security guard is nowhere in sight. Second, the bank of monitors forming a half-moon on the security desk reminds her. Surveillance. Her upchucking act was probably caught on camera in the stairwells.

"You saw," she says simply.

"Motion detectors picked you up in the stairwell and turned the camera on," Stanley explains. Reggie just headed up stairs to see if you were all right. Let me call him off," he tells her, taking the walkie-talkie set off his hip and pushing the button.

Meanwhile, Kate is making a beeline for the door. She doesn't need any more questions.

"Please apologize to Reggie for me," she tells him. "And I am sorry for the mess I made up there." Before Stanley can reply, she is gone. He gazes upward, as if he could see thirty-seven floors up.

"Bastard," he mutters under his breath as he returns to his seat behind the circular desk.

Outside, Kate is already hailing a cab. She gives the cabbie her mother's address, and sits back. She reaches inside her purse, pulling out a package of chewing gum. She grabs a stick, unwraps it and throws it in her mouth, looking to get the stench out.

Leaning her head back, she closes her eyes. Suddenly, she opens her eyes and reaches into her purse, pulling out her cell phone. Castle. She has to call him. She needs to her his voice. After having her lips on another man – any man, but especially that one – she needs the reassurance of his voice.

It rings four times and then rolls over to his voice mail.

 _"This is Richard Castle. You know what to do."_

She hangs up, her disappointment heavy. Immediately her minds runs toward worse case scenarios. She can count the number of times – few and far between – that she has called Richard Castle and he hasn't picked up the phone. It's a rare occurrence that he allows her calls to go unanswered. Suddenly, she begins to wonder – in earnest – exactly what her mother's resurrection is going to ultimately cost. A question she has no idea how staggering that answer might be.

She allows herself to drift off for a quick shut eye, and roughly twenty minutes later she is pulling up to her parent's home. She tries calling Castle again, but with the same result.

Frowning, she pays the cabbie and walks – on suddenly very unsure legs – toward the front door. With each step, her heart skips a beat, or so it seems, until she is almost sprinting across the thin layer of snow to the doorstep. She rings the doorbell, then on a whim, tries the door. It's open and unlocked. Of course it would be. This is her very trusting mother we are talking about.

She opens the door, and the smell of homemade meatloaf almost knocks her over. And then she hears that voice.

"Katie?" her mother's voice rings out. A hundred cocoons burst open, and Kate almost staggers as she watches the now older woman she used to call 'Mom' step around the corner from the kitchen.

"There you are!" Johanna calls out to her. Kate Beckett, however, has planted roots and grown paralyzed in place. She wills her feet to move, but they refuse. Her brain has locked up and without warning, refuses to allow any command passage.

Johanna simply laughs, making her way to her daughter and wrapping her in a huge hug. Kate's hands finally find a mind of their own, reciprocating the action. She hugs her mother tightly, fiercely. She sniffs deeply, inhaling the smell of her mother. It is noticeable to Johanna, who is not used to such a display of affection. And more, she is not ready for the tears she feels dropping on her cheeks, or the sobs escaping from her daughter's lips.

'Katie?" she asks.

"Oh God, Mom," Kate manages between sobs. "It's been . . . it's been so long!" She pulls her mother back into their embrace, holding her even more tightly this time.

"I . . . have . . . missed you so much," Kate tells her. "So much . . ."

"Katie, it's just been a couple of months," Johanna reminds her, not realizing that for her daughter tonight – it hasn't been a couple of months. It's been a decade and a few years more.

"I've just missed you, Mom," Kate tells her, now recognizing her father immediately as he makes his walk out from the hallway."

"Katie!" he calls out. "Your mom told me you were coming. What a pleasant surprise."

Kate pulls him into the embrace, now experiencing something she had forgotten long ago. Family.

She almost feels guilty, knowing how hard Castle has tried to include her into his family, trying so hard to make her feel welcome, and part of his family, his world. Now? Holding tightly to Jim and Johanna Beckett, Kate is reminded once again . . . there's no place like home.

She opens her eyes as they embrace and her eyes are drawn to the wall just past her, heading to the living room. There is a picture there. A picture of two girls. Sisters evidently. Her eyes mist again, as there is no denying the blood connection between Kate and the younger version of herself.

"Kendall," she whispers, remembering Johanna's words earlier.

"Spending the night with a friend," she tells her daughter. "She'll be home tomorrow afternoon. And she can't believe you've come over for dinner. Speaking of, let's go get caught up. I've warmed your plate. And I see you brought wine."

"Cold?" Jim chuckles, squeezing Kate's shoulder.

"Always, Dad," Kate replies.

"Where in the world did you find my watch?" he suddenly asks, glancing down at the large watch on her wrist. "I didn't know they still made this guy," he marvels, comparing the watch on his wrist to hers.

"I just . . . I just wanted to keep you close, Dad," she tells him, now astutely aware of the necklace around her neck – inside her blouse – that her mom absolutely cannot see. Explaining a knock-off watch is one thing. An exact replicat of a wedding ring, however . . .

Jim tightens the embrace on his wife and oldest daughter, and Kate simply closes her eyes, reveling in the long-lost intimacy with both of her parents. She opens her eyes briefly, to get another glimpse of the picture of the two Beckett sisters.

Yeah, the words from the old movie were spot on accurate. There's no place like home.


	11. Chapter 11

**Kairos – Chapter 11**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Saturday Evening – April 27, 2013, 11:27 p.m., At Jim and Johanna Beckett's Home in New York City_**

.

"Kendall is going to be so bummed that she missed you," Jim Beckett tells his daughter, as he takes another sip of wine from the oval glass. "She was just here last month for a weekend."

For a smiling Kate Beckett, it is both a wonderful comfort and a jolting horror to see her father partaking of alcohol so easily and effortlessly. She had to bite her tongue just to prevent herself from jumping down the man's throat when she first saw him pour himself a drink. Then again, she has to remind herself.

His demons never surfaced.

Her mother is alive.

Johanna Beckett has been sitting on the couch right next to Kate for the past hour and a half. She never died. And so Jim Beckett never lost himself in the bottom of a bottle. Alcohol is nothing more than a casual drink of iced tea or soda pop to the Jim Beckett of this timeline.

Tonight has been a dream come true for the ex-detective. She stands and excuses herself – she has had a few drinks herself, and nature is beckoning now. Strongly.

She idly wonders about her life in this timeline during the bathroom break, as she sits on the familiar toilet seat in the familiar bathroom of years long ago. However, instead of enjoying a moment of happy reflection, her mind immediately pulls up current events.

Being the mistress of William Bracken? That is so over. She's not sure how she will do it, but that ship has sailed in her mind. Then again, somehow he is her mentor. Somehow she owes her current upward trajectory to the Senator who – in turn – enjoys a horizontal trajectory with her – apparently any time he pleases. She frowns at the thought.

She's having an affair with a married man.

And of all the men on the planet, it had to be _that_ married man, to boot!

The frown deepens as she thinks about Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan, and how to get in touch with them. How to introduce herself into their personal lives.

Her thoughts also travel to the 12th Precinct. She no longer works there. She works down at . . . where in the hell does she work, as Assistant District Attorney? And what in the hell does she know about being a lawyer? Coming back into this timeline didn't magically give her decades of legal knowledge and legal precedence. In her mind, she's a cop, not an attorney.

Her mother's calling voice breaks the temporary sadness and rising concern, reminding her of what is most important here.

Johanna Beckett is alive. Her family is intact. And it has increased by one. Kate finds herself anxious to meet her younger sister.

"You fall in, in there?" her mother laughs from outside the door. "Your father is turning in for the night, and I'm right behind him."

"Coming," she tells them, and a minute later she is back in the living room. Her dad is – indeed – gone for the night, apparently. Her mother has waited behind.

"This has been so nice, Katie," Johanna tells her. "I . . . I do hope that . . ."

"We will be doing this much more often, Mom," Kate tells her, letting her off the hook. "Trust me on that."

Johanna beams happily. She's about to ask another question when Kate cuts her off.

"Do you mind if I stay the night, Mom? Here, I mean?" she asks. Johanna could not be happier. And Kate, for her part, wants nothing to do with what may still be waiting for her back at her own apartment.

"Oh, Katie, stay anytime you like, as long as you like," her mother replies, wrapping her up once again in a familiar hug that Kate never imagined experiencing again. "I know you have the nicest place in town," she tells her, with an odd expression. "I also know that it comes with a price."

"Yeah," Kate replies, now wondering just how much her mother knows about a certain relationship with a certain politician. No matter, this has been enough for one night. She has a lifetime ahead of her to sort all of this out.

"Let's save that for another night," Kate tells her, and something in the woman's voice tells Johanna Beckett that something has changed on that front also. She could not be more pleased.

"Another night it is," Johanna remarks with a smile. "Your old room is still there, very little has changed," she promises. "Oh, it will be so good to wake up with you at home . . . even just for one night. And Kendall should be home tomorrow – perhaps you will get to see her."

"Thanks, Mom," Kate tells her, placing a long kiss on her cheek, once again startling the older woman. "I will see you in the morning, and I can't wait to see her, too."

"In the morning," Johanna repeats, and makes her way down the hallway, humming happily.

Kate watches until she is out of sight, then moves to the sofa table where she has left her purse. Reaching inside, she pulls out her cell phone, and frowns with concern.

No calls.

Not even one.

That's not natural. They have far too much to talk about. She has called him three times during the evening after she got her.

No answer each time.

She has texted him twice.

No answer either time.

Yeah, something is wrong on his end. He wouldn't go dark like this unless . . .

She shakes her head, wondering just what could have happened. They did nothing – absolutely nothing at all – that should even remotely impact Richard Castle's life in this timeline. She pulls up her contact list, and once again, touches his picture.

"Come on, Castle," she begs with growing frustration, "Pick up."

Four rings, and it rolls to voicemail again.

"No!" she mutters to herself. "I know exactly what you would do if the roles were reversed Mr. Castle," she remarks out loud, softly. She hits his image again. Four rings later, she receives the same result. Undaunted, she hits his image a third time.

This time it doesn't even ring.

"What do you want, Beckett?" she hears him reply on the other end. His voice is slow, slurred, and as shocking as his greeting is cold.

"What?" she asks in a whisper. "What do you mean _what do I want?_ "

There is a long silence – a pause of only three or four seconds – but it is uncomfortable on her end. Her mouth hangs open, waiting for a reply. When she gets none, she begins to speak.

"Castle, what –"

"She's dead, Beckett," he says softly, and now she can hear the tears. She can tell these aren't new, fresh tears. His voice is hoarse and cracked. It sounds like his has been crying . . . probably loudly . . . for hours now.

Wait, what did he just say?

Who's dead? Who is _'she'_?

"Who, Rick?" Kate asks, and her first thought, somehow, is Martha. Something has happened to his mother.

Another pause follows, before he speaks again.

"Alexis," he tells her. His voice is soft and haunted, barely audible. She cannot believe her ears.

"No!" she whispers loudly, her head jerking to quickly glance down the hallway, making sure she still has privacy for this call. "That's not possible," she mutters to herself, under her breath. Unfortunately, he hears her words.

"On the contrary. It is more than possible."

"Rick," she calls out to him, her voice heavy with emotion. "What happened?"

"It's my fault," he tells her. "It's my fault. I saved your mother. And killed my daughter. I killed all of them."

He's not making sense, but suddenly she understands the cause for the alcohol-induced thoughts she knows are coming across the telephone.

And who is 'all of them'?

"Rick, I don't understand," Kate tells him, now frantic. She makes her decision quickly.

"Hold on just a second, babe. Don't hang up. Please, don't hang up," she tells him as she picks herself up from the sofa. She holds the phone in her hand and runs down the hallway to her parent's room.

She's had the night of her life, seeing her mother alive again. And apparently tonight, she has done much to repair what appears to be a damaged relationship. She can't ruin it by just leaving unannounced.

"Mom," she knocks on the door. "I have to step out, just for a few minutes. I will be back in a bit. Okay?"

"Okay, Katie," she hears from the behind the doorway. Quickly, the door opens and she sees her mother, who is just starting to get undressed, peeking behind the door.

"Are you sure everything is okay, Katie?" she asks.

"Yes, Mom, I promise," she tells her. "I have a dear friend on the phone who needs my help," she tells her. It's the truth.

"I will be back, I promise."

Before Johanna can say another word, Kate is hustling down the hallway. She hears her daughter calling out a name.

"Castle? Castle are you there?"

Johanna shakes her head, tightly holding on to the door. Surely she can't mean _that Castle_. Not him. Suddenly memories flood Johanna's mind of a horrific accident. She's back in the back seat of the runaway taxicab, screaming a prayer out loud, watching it plow into the helpless woman. And her child. The beautiful young woman never sees the cab coming. Unfortunately, however, her daughter does. For perhaps the thousandth time over the past decade-plus, Johanna sees the look of terror on the young red-headed child's face. The look that sent Johanna Beckett into a couple of year of therapy. Seconds later the child is airborne, along with her mother, crashing through the glass window of the bookstore.

Johanna slams the door shut, closing her eyes tightly, shaking.

"No," she whispers to herself, "It can't be _him_."

Kate Beckett, of course, has no knowledge of the hand grenade that her single word unwittingly tossed into her parent's bedroom. She continues on toward the front door, opening it and exiting quickly as she talks.

"Castle, I'm headed your way," she tells him, her voice louder now. She glances up and down the street, looking for a cab. Finding none, she starts jogging toward the intersection where she knows one will be passing by.

"I'm coming to the loft," she tells him. "I will be there in less than twenty minutes."

"Don't bother," is the reply she gets back. It punches the air completely out of her chest, and she scrambles to catch her cell phone that fumbles out of her fingers. A cab approaches, and she quickly hails the vehicle, stepping out into the street. She slides into the back seat.

"595 Broome Street," she tells the driver. "And please hurry."

Turning her attention back to Richard Castle, she almost yells into the phone a little louder than she intends.

"Castle! Tell me what's happened, please!"

There is no answer. It takes a few more seconds for her to realize he is no longer there. He's hung up.

"What the hell!" she barks, pulling up his image again, and initiating the phone call yet again. This time, there are those same, damnable four rings and his voicemail greeting.

"Dammit, Rick!" she mutters, and now her chest starts to tighten, as she starts to put together everything – what little she knows – from their all-to-brief conversation.

Alexis is dead?

All of them are dead?

How – and what – is he talking about? Her thoughts immediately go to Alexis. If the young woman really is dead, then all of this – everything they did to bring Johanna back – is worth nothing at all in Castle's mind. She knows this. She knows how important his daughter is. She knows that his daughter is the most important person in his life, their evolving romance notwithstanding. She knows – in that moment – that Richard Castle's life has just come crashing to earth.

And there's very little – if anything – she is going to be able to do about it.

She tries him one more time, and is not surprised at all to see the call – once again – roll to voicemail. She slams her phone into her purse, offering a plea to the driver.

"Please hurry," she tells the man, who complies with a quick acceleration as he begins to weave through the lighter, close-to-midnight traffic in the city.

Less than fifteen minutes later, the cab pulls to a stop in front of Castle's building.

"Thank you, thank you so much," she repeats, her words jumbled upon one another as she throws two twenties into the front seat and dashes out of the back door.

"Thanks!" the cabbie hollers as he watches her enter the building and then drives off.

Kate walks through the door and is greeting by a quizzical Mike Monroe, who is still an hour away from getting off of his shift. He recognizes the woman immediately. Fred Sanderson is the District Attorney for the city, and Kate Beckett is up-and-coming looker that is beloved by the paparazzi and local networks, and the anticipated heir to Sanderson.

Yeah, he recognizes Kate Beckett right away. But what is the assistant DA doing here? At this hour?

"Can I help you, ma'am?" he asks, standing and approaching the woman.

"I'm looking for Richard Castle," she tells him. "I know my way around here," she finishes as she heads to the elevator.

"I'm sorry, Miss Beckett," he tells her, drawing a raised eyebrow.

 _"I know Mike, but how does he know me?"_ she thinks to herself, since it's pretty apparent that she and Richard Castle have nothing going on in this timeline.

"I can't let you up without calling first," he begins. Unbeknownst to Mike Monroe, Castle left the building hours ago, taking the stairwell and the side exit. He had heard the exit door open – the 'ding' on his screen told him the door had opened. When he got up to look, however, no one was there, and so the security man had correctly assumed someone from the building had just left, not come inside.

"Your first name is Kate, correct?" Mike asks.

"Yes," Kate replies, as a gnawing fear begins to grow in her belly. This is a security guard at Castle's apartment building. Again, she wonders why he would know the Assistant DA, by sight, if she and Castle aren't together.

"Let me call up," he tells her. "Rick . . . Mr. Castle doesn't take many visitors," he tells her pausing. "And none that I have ever known this late at night."

He picks up the phone and dials a number, then looks back at Kate.

"He's not in any trouble, is he?" Mike asks, and Kate can see and hear the concern from the large black man. It doesn't surprise her at all to realize that – in any timeline – Richard Castle probably is a kind, gentle soul that draws friendships to himself.

Seconds later, Monroe hears Martha Rodgers voice on the other end.

"Ms. Rogers," Mike begins. "I'm sorry for the late call. I have a visitor for Rick. Is he there?"

Kate watches the one-way exchange from her vantage point, and her heart drops when it becomes obvious that, for whatever reason, Castle is not here.

"He's not?" Mike says, his eyes showing surprise. His mind quickly puts two and two together, realizing that it must have been his friend, Castle, who left earlier this evening through the side door next to the stairwell.

"Any idea when he will be returning?" he asks, knowing that will be a question that the woman standing here will want to know.

"I have no idea, Mike," a concerned Martha replies. "It's almost as if . . . it was almost like he was reliving everything all over again for the first time," the elderly woman tells him, her voice breaking. "I have no idea what happened."

"Well, you're not going to believe this . . ." he begins, and then changes his mind.

"I am just going to send our guest up," he tells Martha. "I think you'll be able to better deal with this than me," he says, glancing Kate's way as he hangs up.

"What does that mean?" Kate asks, a little edge creeping into her voice. Unknowingly, it has an effect on the security guard who clearly does not want to run afoul of the district attorney's office.

"Ms. Rodgers is expecting you," he tells her. "Understand, Miss Beckett," he continues. "Rick and his mother . . . they don't blame your mother for what happened . . . they know it's not her fault. But it's still hard. It was a long time ago, I know . . ."

Monroe sees the total and complete confusion etched across Kate Beckett's face, and stops talking. Either the woman is a great actress, or a complete airhead. He decides that whichever it is, it doesn't matter. Either way, Kate Beckett has just dropped a few notches in his mind.

"Go on up," he waves at her, and Kate recognizes the immediate and sudden change in the security guard. Between his change of tone and his cryptic words about her mother . . . well, Kate is certainly on edge now, having no idea what any of that means, or what is waiting upstairs for her. This is Martha, after all.

But not the Martha she knows.

The ride upstairs is short, thankfully. Kate exits the elevator and finds herself walking at a brisk pace, despite her trepidation, toward Castle's loft. She reaches the door and knocks quickly, then takes a step back.

She knows Castle is not here. He has told her Alexis is dead. And Mike – downstairs – hinted that Castle and Martha don't really blame Kate's mother?

What in the world is going on?

She is ready to knock again, a second time, when the door opens. Martha's eyes betray her, as she recognizes the woman outside their door immediately. And there is something else in those eyes.

Anger? Sadness?

Kate, can't tell. She is about to greet her old friend when Martha beats her to the punch.

"You!" Martha Rodgers exhales softly, eyeing her warily. "Why in God's name would you come here?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Kairos – Chapter 12**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Saturday Evening – April 27, 2013, 11:28 p.m., At the New York Public Library_**

.

The library is completely darkened now, as midnight fast approaches. Security guard Walter Jameson is downstairs somewhere, or perhaps upstairs, doing his rounds. He has – fortunately – left Richard Castle to himself, sensing that something huge is bothering his friend. For the past couple of hours, Castle has been alternately doing internet searches and bursting into fresh rounds of frustrated tears. He's done nothing to hide either.

He has sat here for an hour, weeping over the loss of his daughter, Alexis. He can't seem to get off the emotional rollercoaster, feeling guilt ridden over ever making that damn leap back in time to save Johanna Beckett. If he had even had an inkling that saving the woman would end up killing his own daughter . . . well that's a trade he never would have made.

Ever.

Not for Kate Beckett.

Not for anyone.

Dr. Windholm had warned him about the ripple effects. Hell, Kevin Ryan had tried to warn him. But in his – as usual – singular focus to please Kate Beckett, he had ignored both of them. The doctor had been right. As had Kevin Ryan.

That singular thought had led him to search for a few of his friends – just to make sure that nothing else crazy has happened because of 'that damn trip' as he now refers to it.

He has been sorely disappointed.

A quick google search for 'Kevin Ryan NYPD' had broken his heart even further.

 _Kevin Ryan, NYPD, deceased March 1, 2011._

He had pulled up an article, having to remove his shaking hand from the keyboard mouse as he read. The article went into great detail about the deaths of two NYPD homicide detectives, Kevin Ryan and Javier Esposito. The two detectives were working a terrorist case with Federal Agent Mark Fallon. The case ended badly, with the two detectives unable to disarm a dirty bomb in the middle of New York City. Ironically, the bomb squad had been a block away, trying to get there in time. They, too, became casualties of the war on terror.

Castle continued reading, with angry tears pelting the keyboard, about the dirty bomb blast that – although contained – took out a full square city block a couple of years ago. He thinks back to that case, which found Castle and Kate Beckett almost frozen to death in a large trailer of sorts, and ended with Castle frantically pulling all of the wires from the bomb at – literally – the last second. Apparently, however, neither Esposito nor Ryan shared Castle's reckless and imaginative nature, as neither considered grabbing all of the wires and yanking furiously.

Now, both detectives stand honored – posthumously, of course – with bronze plaques on a large monument in the city at the spot of the blast. It is the second monument in the city for the victims of a terror attack. The surrounding area had been cordoned off and closed for almost six months, for cleanup. The death toll had reached 1,215. Those injured and affected by the cobalt fallout? Projected to be in the thousands, and still rising.

Further reading had informed him that Kevin Ryan left a wife, Jenny and a daughter. Evidently, the Ryan of this timeline married his sweetheart a year and a half earlier. As for Javier Esposito – he left a widow as well.

A certain medical examiner, Lanie Parrish.

It has caused Castle to wonder – sadly – about the impact, both good and bad, that he and Kate have had in the world. The fact that Kate isn't a cop here has doomed two good friends. The fact that Kate's mother is alive has doomed his own daughter. And the fact that he and Kate weren't at the 12th Precinct only sped up the marriage of Kevin and Jenny, and somehow allowed for the marriage of Javier and Lanie. But it also doomed both men, as it should have been he and Kate there at the bomb site, not their friends.

In his mind, in his memories, he and Kate survived, and went back to their friends.

In this reality, however, those friends are dead.

So here he sits, a couple of hours into his discoveries, regretting ever hearing about Kronologix. He curses the heavens and the universe for even allowing Sandra Windholm to come to the book signing in the first place, and talk to him about time travel. He curses himself for ever writing the stupid book that brought the doctor to him. The costs have been far too high.

No Alexis. No Javier. No Kevin Ryan.

And, to add insult to injury, his search on Kate Beckett revealed a fast-riser in the city government. She's the assistant district attorney, for crying out loud. Her pictures flood the internet from various gatherings. She is what he no longer is. A rock star of sort. Good pedigree, with a respected attorney for a mother and a professor for a father. A sister in middle school here in the city.

And the backing of a certain Senator at the nation's capital.

It's almost too much to bear. No. Scratch that. It is far too much to bear, as the ex-novelist and resident recluse breaks down yet again.

The phone call from Kate only unleashed an illogical but unrelenting anger at the woman he loves. He wonders if there still is a 'Castle and Kate' in this timeline. There doesn't appear to be. And despite the feelings they have for one another, she's going to have to insert herself into the lifeline of this timeline's Kate Beckett. She's going to have to figure out how to be an attorney. She's going to be working closely with Senator Bracken, evidently. She probably has a boyfriend here to deal with.

Probably Dr. Motorcyle-boy. Or hell, maybe the universe has completely fucked him, and put her in bed with the Senator. Yeah, wouldn't that be just precious.

Kate isn't a cop anymore. He knew this would be a possibility. Hell, a probability. But experiencing it first-hand is different. He hasn't been shadowing her. All of the cases she has solved; they have solved. His mind is racing now. Did Esposito and Ryan solve them? Were the people he and Kate saved still saved? What about all of the arrests? Where is Jenny now? Is Lanie all right?

All of those thoughts disappear as his focus crystalizes once more, and his vision blurs again.

"Pumpkin," he whispers out loud. There is a canyon-sized hole in his heart now. He knows that this will be a gaping wound that never heals.

Recluse? Yeah, he already doesn't want to be bothered by anyone – Kate included. Somehow, for now, especially not Kate.

Writing? No, he doesn't see himself writing anything anytime soon. Any inspiration he has had has been brutally _ripped_ from underneath him. He completely understands the reactions of his doppelganger in this timeline.

Only now, there is no doppelganger anymore. There is only him. And his mother. Speaking of his mother . . .

Kate mentioned meeting him at the loft. He really ought to warn Martha, but somehow right now, even Martha doesn't seem real to him. None of this is real.

Not without Alexis.

For a moment, he considers a return to the Kronologix facility. A return to the past to right a wrong. To return things to their proper order. He is starting to mentally sprint down that trail when a horrible thought hits him.

He pulls up a new browser screen, and accesses his bank's customer account website. A few guesses at his username and password – now that he's done this once already tonight – and he is online with his account. The chuckle that leaves his throat is clearly haunted and resigned – with no humor whatsoever.

 _$18,917.45 in checking. $277,386.22 in savings._

Not bad, compared to a lot of people, he is certain. But a far cry from the tens of millions of dollars that he has . . . _had_ in the other timeline.

His real timeline.

He shakes his head in anger and frustration and overwhelming sadness, as the reality of the life now facing him settles in. In this timeline, he was a happily-married up-and-coming author. Four Derek Storm books behind him, and a growing fan base. Suddenly, the two most important people in his life are snatched away. His response? He retreated into his cave – mentally and physically – never to write again. Which means no more Derek Storm, no Nikki Heat. No million-dollar paydays. No trust account for . . . for a daughter who no longer exists.

That all existed in his timeline. With Alexis. With Kate. With his friends at the 12th Precinct.

Now that timeline is forever gone. This is his new reality. His only reality. And even if he could somehow explain this massive screw-up to Dr. Windholm – even if he could admit that, yeah, they broke the rules and changed the past and now need to go back to fix things – _he doesn't have the funds to do so!_

It took two million dollars to go back last time, and he knows she would want at least a million or so to do so again. A million that he doesn't have.

Head in hands, he closes his eyes, musing aloud.

"Think, Rick, think!" he tells himself. "There has to be a way . . ."

 _"Yeah, but nothing legal or ethical,"_ a cold, mirthless voice in the back of his head whispers tauntingly, almost laughing at him.

"Doesn't matter," he finds himself saying out loud. "Laws or no laws, I have to get back," he continues, now a little louder. He glances around, making sure that Walt isn't around to hear these musings.

"Maybe she'd take a quarter million dollars, since I already gave her two million," he rationalizes aloud, just under his breath, considering Dr. Windholm once again. He shakes his head, pushing the thought away, when another thought hits him.

 _"Nikki. Make some use of her,"_ a strange, warm voice in the back of his head suggests, with a frantic urgency.

"Yeah, I've written all of those books," he muses aloud. "I know them like the back of my hand. I could re-write them. They were wildly popular in my timeline. Maybe they'd be popular here . . . now as well."

 _"That will take years, idiot,"_ the former voice warns with a chuckle. _"Are you really willing to wait years to get your daughter back? A lot can happen in years . . ."_

"That's right," a despondent Castle agrees with the voice, as he reaches down into his desk and pulls out the bottle of whiskey yet again. He considers how much has happened in this timeline already.

 _"No!"_ the second voice screams at him. _"Think big picture. You get your daughter back. Then what? You still need to be a writer. That's who you are. That's what you do. Do this the right way. A couple of years more won't kill you."_

"Yeah, but it will," Castle argues back at both voices assaulting him. He wonders if this is what it's like – if this is how a descent into madness begins. Hearing voices. He's lost his daughter for less than one single day – less than one evening – and he is already having imaginary conversations, and drinking more tonight than he normally does in a week. No, he can't take one or two years of this.

He glances down at the whiskey. He keeps it in his desk here at work. At least this timeline's Richard Castle does. And he understands perfectly. Anything to kill the pain. Anything to dull the reality.

It is not lost on him that – in his world, his reality – Johanna Beckett died, and Jim Beckett became an alcoholic. Here, Johanna Beckett lived, and Richard Castle became the alcoholic.

He shakes his head, killing off both voices, as he spins his chair around, giving him a view of the darkness below on the first floor, wondering how quickly – legally or not – he can put his hands on the necessary funds for a return trip to Kronologix.

And the past. With or without Kate Beckett, he has to make this right again, somehow.

He closes down his desktop computer, pulling himself together – even temporarily – and walks out of the office. Suddenly, despite his earlier thoughts, he needs to be home. He needs his own bed, familiar surroundings – hell, even a familiar Martha Rodgers.

Minutes later, he is in the street, looking for a late night taxi.


	13. Chapter 13

**Kairos – Chapter 13**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Saturday Evening – April 27, 2013, 12:04 p.m., At Richard Castle's Loft_**

.

"Martha?" Kate replies, more than a bit confused as to the older woman's greeting. Her confusion only lasts for a second or two though before realization quickly set in.

 _"She doesn't know me from Adam,"_ Kate thinks to herself.

She could not be more wrong.

Martha Rodgers knows _of_ Kate, for certain. But not only as the media darling – slash - paparazzi queen on television and on the internet. Not merely as the fast-rising Assistant DA with powerful people providing an upward draft for her career.

No, to Martha Rodgers, more than anything else, Kate Beckett is the daughter of the woman who was involved in the accident that destroyed her son's life.

"I came here to see Rick," Kate tells the woman. "I spoke with Mike downstairs, and said he wasn't here, though."

"He's not," Martha replies, now confused herself. "He came in and blew through here like a hurricane. Very unlike him. And when in God's name did the two of you become first-name familiar? In fact, when did _you and I_ get to be on a first name basis?"

"I . . . I don't . . ."

She's stumbling now. She knows it. She realizes that this is going to go sideways quickly as Martha continues.

"Why is the city's assistant district attorney here in our home in the first place?" Martha asks quickly, and now a bit of concern has entered her voice. Dammit, he hasn't been gone that long . . . how much trouble could he get into in so little time?

"And here in the wee hours of the morning at that?"

"It's not what you think," Kate answers quickly. "Rick . . . Castle and I are friends. Good friends. We have –"

"I find that hard to believe, Miss Beckett," Martha interrupts, now eyeing her all the more warily.

"Good friends? Please! I know Richard doesn't blame you – per se – for what happened to Meredith and Alexis. And it's not right to blame your mother either. But you know how grief is. Sometimes you have to be able to point the finger at someone, just to keep your sanity. Your mother was his best option. And you, by extension."

"What?!" Kate exclaims, taken completely aback and by surprise.

"It could have been anyone in that taxicab. I know that," Martha continues, undaunted by Kate's reactions. "So does Richard. But in his mind, it really doesn't matter. That fact is, it was your mother, it was . . ."

Martha thoughts drift away, rendering her unable to complete the sentence. For Kate's part, she now has a few pieces of the story, but not the full picture. And she knows that asking questions – questions that clearly, this timeline's Kate should know the answers to – is not a good idea. She's going to have to wait until she sees Castle again.

And she has to hope that he is still 'her Castle', despite whatever horrific turn of events has occurred here.

"Martha . . . Ms. Rodgers . . ." she continues to stumble along, searching for the right words. "It's important that I speak with your son. I cannot stress to you how important this is. I know you said that he isn't –"

"He's not in any sort of trouble is he?" Martha asks, her concern evident. "He wasn't gone that long. I will ask again. What's going on that requires the Assistant DA to make a . . . a personal call to our home at this hour?"

There's a fire in Martha's eyes, a fire to the entire woman that Kate is not used to seeing. Oh sure, Martha always had a way with words, and a dramatic flair. But usually it was an act – even though the older woman didn't realize it. It was just another role she easily slipped into in a lifetime of many roles.

But this is not an act. And the intensity staring back at Kate is no act, either.

"I promise you, Ms. Rodgers, I mean no harm to you or to Ri . . . to Castle," Kate tells her. "Castle . . . your son _is_ in trouble. I won't lie," she tells her, and in so many ways she is spot on with the truth. Castle _is_ in trouble. Somehow his daughter is gone from this timeline, although she doesn't know how. But she knows how much Alexis means to him.

She means everything to him.

Yeah, he's in trouble. And she doesn't know what she can do to help, but she has to be here. Timeline realities or not – they are still together, at least in her mind.

"I'm only here to help," she continues. "I'm only here to help," she repeats, not sure what else to say.

"But . . . how can . . . what can you . . . oh, forget it," Martha decides, with a flamboyant wave of her hands. "Whatever my son is doing with you . . . whatever it is that is . . ."

Her words and thoughts are cut off as the door behind Kate opens loudly, revealing a Richard Castle who is almost unrecognizable to her.

"Castle?" Kate exclaims, alarmed at his disheveled appearance, and immediately smelling the liquor that emanates from his open mouth.

He gazes at her – no – he gazes through her, towards his mother. Then his eyes fall back upon the woman he has always known as Detective Kate Beckett.

"Mike told me you were up here," he says softly. "Why are you here?" he asks, his words slurring. Yeah, she can tell he's been drinking, and drinking heavily. It explains his confusion as to why she would be here. Where else would she be?

They stand – some five feet away from each other – in an almost comical movie-film standoff. They stare at each other for a few seconds. Her gaze upon him is soft, and sad. His gaze upon her is . . . something else. Kate takes a step forward, toward him. He doesn't reciprocate. But he doesn't step backward either. It's as if a battle is waging inside his head, and there has been far too much alcohol for this to be a fair fight.

For her part, Martha watches the physical impasse between her son and the Assistant District Attorney with growing interest. Something is very off here. Something is different. No . . . more than that, something is very, very wrong. It is all too apparent that these two seem to know each other. They seem to know each other far more than they should. And somehow, this has occurred right under her nose, without her knowledge, because Richard Castle doesn't go anywhere.

Something has happened, because the one thing she knows for certain is that her son is no fan of the Assistant District Attorney. Never has been. To Richard, Kate Beckett is the daughter that Johanna Beckett has, that she took away from him. No, it's not logical. No, it's not fair. But grief never is. As Castle's therapist has told both of them – often – grief isn't logical, it doesn't make sense, and each person travels that grieving road differently. Yes, there are stages – but each person traverses those stages differently, in a different order, for different periods of time.

And some people – well, some people never find their way back.

People like her son.

 _"Not all the turtles make it back to the water, Martha,"_ she recalls his therapist telling her just last year. _"It's been what – twelve, thirteen years now? We can only hope Richard makes it back."_

Martha's thoughts are interrupted as she watches the assistant district attorney take another step toward her son – this one more determined – before her son surprises his mother by taking a step forward. Kate falls silently into his embrace.

"What in the world?!" Martha says softly to herself, as she watches the scene unfold in front of her, and she's got a front row seat to a live show unlike any she has participated in.

"Oh Castle," Kate tells him, tearfully, wrapping her arms around him tightly. "I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry," she repeats, while Martha almost stumbles in shock.

"She's gone, Kate," he tells her, fresh tears flowing now, as he lays his chin atop her forehead, trying to hold in another round of sobs. He figured he was cried out by now. He is so wrong.

"I know babe," Kate tells him. "What happened?" she asks, trying to keep her voice low and away from his mother's now highly inquisitive ears. The intimacy of their embrace has caught her completely off guard.

"All right Richard," Martha begins. "What in the world is going on here? How do you know . . . since when have you and the city's assistant district attorney been . . . been so . . ."

"It's a long story, Mother," he tells her, looking at her concerned face now. "And not one that you would ever believe, either."

"What happened, Castle?" Kate asks again, still speaking softly, not willing to tear away from the embrace that was so clearly and brutally denied her less than half an hour ago on the phone. "What happened to Alexis?"

She feels him stiffen again, and it forces her to tighten her grip on him. She isn't going to let him pull away. She isn't going to let him start running. She knows what that's like. She's been an expert at running during her lifetime. She knows the sprinters stance when she sees it, feels it.

"Mother," he begins, forcibly pushing Kate away just enough to allow him to move. It still disappoints her.

"Mother, I . . . it won't make sense . . . I . . . I need some time alone with Kate for a –"

"With _Kate_?" she asks. "Exactly how close are you two? What is going on, Richard -"

"Mother, I will explain everything . . . in the morning, I promise," he tells her, interrupting. "But for right now, please just trust me. I need to speak with . . . our assistant district attorney in private for a bit. Kate, go on to our room . . . to my room. I will be there in a minute."

"Now, how does she know where . . . wait just a minute!" Martha exclaims, her hand quickly covering her mouth. "You said ' _our_ room' . . . Richard, what is –"

"Mother!" he interrupts again, this time snapping a bit more forcefully than he intends. He quickly makes amends.

"Mother," he says, much more softly this time, "Go into my den. To my computer. I know you know how to use it. Google the company named Kronologix. I will tell you more in the morning," he tells her, and his eyes mist yet again. Martha recoils a bit, as she has never seen them so red, so haunted. Even during those first few days after he lost Meredith and Alexis. And somehow, it seems like he is reliving those early days all over again. It kills her, because she thought he was making better progress.

But now this . . .

Her own thoughts are interrupted as he starts walking away from her, down the hall, heading toward his room, following Kate. Kate, who seems to know her way around here far too well.

"Richard?" his mother calls out after him, her voice not nearly as strong as it was mere seconds ago.

"Kronologix, Mother," he replies without turning back to look at her. He reaches his doorway and walks inside, closing the door behind a now-stunned and confused Martha Rodgers.

Inside, Kate is sitting on the bed – in her mind it is still their bed, despite all that has happened – on his side which is closest to the door. She watches him walk in, and she sees the same haunted, completely lost look on his face that Martha did. It's a look she has never seen on Richard Castle, and it takes every thought in her head and bludgeons them senseless.

He walks slowly, stumbling once before reaching their bedside. He sits next to her on the bed, and drops his head into his hands. The smell of alcohol is heavy on him. She knows this smell. For an instant, she is taken back to a different decade, and it is her father sitting next to her, the stench of alcohol and vomit reeking on his body. She shudders with the memory, closing her eyes, willing the image to disappear.

For a few seconds, she does not move. She is frozen into place. She sees – and feels – Castle's body slowly start to shake with a new round of silent sobs. It breaks her, and breaks the paralyzed freeze she is caught in. She moves her hands to his hands, allowing them to graze there briefly before continuing on to his shoulders, then his hair.

"Castle . . . what happened to Alexis?"

He can't answer. He opens his mouth, but the words are stuck in his throat, unable to find safe passage. She coaxes him further.

"Castle," she repeats, and suddenly the logjam in his throat is broken. The words come flooding, without filter, without hesitation.

"We saved your mother," he begins, words coming rapid-fire. "She never died. She was a fan of my books. Came to a book signing. Wanted to get my autograph."

He pauses for a moment as another sob escapes his lips, and his chest heaves a couple of times quickly. She wisely remains quiet, allowing him to tell the story, afraid to interrupt.

"She arrived in a cab, at the same time Meredith and Alexis did," he continues. "Meredith and I were still married . . . it appears quite happily married. And she was pregnant. Our second child," he continues, as the words keep pouring out.

"Meredith and Alexis . . . Meredith was opening the door to the bookstore, ready to walk in, when the cab driver lost control. He . . . he . . ."

He can't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to.

"No!" Kate whispers, tears now filling her eyes as she loosens her grip on Castle. "No . . ."

She pulls his face to hers, so she can see his eyes.

"Rick . . . no . . ."

He simply nods his head, unable to stop the fresh tears from falling before he can speak again. Kate pulls away, involuntarily for a second or two, before catching herself and moving back in, this time even closer, and holding him tighter. Her head is pounding now – it's as if she can feel and hear the blood pulsing, flowing through her head, ringing her ears.

"Your mother was coming to get a book signed," he blurts out again, repeating the story – hoping that by simply saying it out loud, he will wake up from this horrible nightmare that has caught him, and is holding fast to him.

"The cab she was in lost control, and it plowed into Meredith and Alexis at the doorway. Killed them both. Killed my baby. Cabbie and your mother walked away without a _scratch_." He spits the final word out, as if it is the most distasteful thought imaginable.

"The media said she had an angel watching her," he muses angrily. "As if she was any better than my wife and child!" he spits with a venom Kate has never seen from him, and she can tell now that things have turned in a most terrible fashion between she and Richard Castle.

"Castle, I . . . Rick, I am so sorry," Kate tells him, knowing that there are no words in any language to soften this blow he has received tonight. They have saved her mother. But it has come at a terrible cost. A cost they could never have foreseen. A cost she is beginning to realize that they will never move beyond. Suddenly the idea that she is in an affair with Senator William Bracken seems so . . . completely unimportant, so inconsequential. She has her mother back, and any problems of hers that come with that are miniscule compared to what it has cost the man she loves.

She feels her own tears on her cheeks now, realizing that nothing will ever be the same again. Sure, he is with her tonight, he is allowing her in his bedroom tonight. But she senses that this . . . this talk they are having, the remainder of the evening in front of them . . . this could easily be the final chapter for them.

But she won't give up without a fight, that's for certain.

"Rick," she begins, tearfully, as she runs her hand through his hair again. "I don't have the words . . . I don't have an answer for you tonight. I'm just as stunned by this as you are. But we . . . we can work through anything, Castle. We always have. Through nothing like this, I admit. But, we can . . ."

Her words fail her, and the look he gives her wounds her deeply. It's not a look of anger, nor a look of disappointment or hatred, or anything like that. No, it is far worse. It is a look of resignation. He simply falls sideways to his right, his head plopping on the pillow on his king-sized bed. He closes his eyes, and just cries. There are no more words.

She stands quickly, peeling her clothes off without a second thought, kicking off her shoes. She climbs into bed without hesitation, and scoots to his side, wrapping her arms around him. She feels his body shake, racked with sobs, and she can only whisper in his ear. But she hears his words. They are low in volume, barely audible. But she knows him. She knows his dialect, his cadence, his annunciations. His slurred words are an easily-understood oration to her. And his words frighten her.

"I'll get you back, pumpkin," she hears him whisper to the universe, into the night.

"I'll get you back."


	14. Chapter 14

**Kairos – Chapter 14**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

.

 ** _Sunday Morning – April 28, 2013, 7:57 a.m., At Jim and Johanna Beckett's Home in New York City_**

.

Johanna Beckett hums the very familiar Broadway tune as she walks, her steps feeling lighter than they have felt in years. She does – in fact – feel like she is defying gravity this morning. She and Jim awakened in great spirits, flush with excitement over their previous evening with their daughter. Their daughter who had surprised them with – first – a phone call and then second – with dinner. Okay, it was more accurately an 'after-dinner' dinner. It doesn't matter. She called. She said she was coming over.

And then she actually came over. As promised. That in itself was something worth celebrating.

It was quite the accomplishment for a woman who has grown to be both the pride and joy – professionally – of her parents, while at the same time offering case after case of predictable disappointment – personally. Kate Beckett doesn't give her family much of her time, so yeah, last night was special, all right.

 _"It's almost like she was a different person,"_ Johanna had mentioned to her husband as they drifted off to sleep last night. _"I almost didn't recognize her."_

So, her steps this morning are light, not wanting to awaken their oft-prodigal daughter, as she approaches her bedroom. It's still her bedroom, even though her visits are . . . well, that's a dead horse already. Smiling, she opens the door, anxious to see her sleeping form, and her heart sinks immediately.

The bed is empty. More than that – the bed is completely made. It's exactly as Johanna has always left it. The insinuation is clear and unavoidable.

She didn't sleep here last night. Despite her promise – _her promise_ – to return from whatever aid she was rendering last night, Kate never returned. Johanna immediately realizes what happened. Her daughter came, yeah, but then likely got a phone call from him.

The Senator.

And then she went running.

As usual.

She frowns, as the thought of her daughter in a relationship with the manipulative married man brings the same anger to the forefront as always. But her heart almost stops as she remembers those last words – that name, in particular – she heard from her daughter as she was leaving the house.

 _Castle_.

"Oh, God," Johanna thinks, staring at the empty bed, now not sure what to make of last night's development, and what the empty bed in front of her means.

.

 ** _Sunday Morning – April 28, 2013, 8:11 a.m., Still at Richard Castle's Loft_**

.

The morning rays that bathe her face are both warm and harsh. She awakens with a start, not sure how long the intrusive light has been resting on her, but she immediately covers her eyes, and sits up. She shakes her head, her beautiful brown locks of hair appearing to move in slow motion. She reaches back behind her, allowing her hand to settle on the man she loves . . . but instead finds empty sheets where his body should be.

Glancing back, she sees his empty side of the bed. All the better. That was one hell of a dream last night. Probably the worst of nightmares she can imagine – and this from a woman who has seen enough nightmares – day or night – to write a book.

Except she's not the author. _He_ is.

Now, where is he?

Her gaze moves toward the far wall, and yeah, there he is. He is sitting in the night chair, along the wall. And he's just staring at her. There's something about his eyes.

"Castle," she muses aloud, stretching as she twists her body, allowing her feet to touch the ground. The warm and thick plush carpet between her toes that she has come to . . . wait a minute.

 _"Where's the carpet?"_ she thinks to herself. She blinks a couple of times, and now she is noticing other things.

 _"No elephant on the wall,"_ she thinks to herself, as her eyes open wider. No plush rug, no elephant on the wall . . .

She fixes him with a firm gaze and that's when she realizes what she sees in his eyes. She can't place what she sees, but it is almost . . . it's almost . . .

Regret. Disappointment. Determination.

"Oh my God," she whispers, standing quickly as she gets her bearings.

"It wasn't a dream, was it?" she says, looking at him. It's not a question. All of the events of yesterday are now rushing back to her. Her mother. Her father. Her sister. William Bracken. Oh, God.

 _Alexis._

"Castle?" she questions again, now suddenly very nervous. There had been no celebratory love-making last night, as she expected when they 'arrived' back and realized her mother was, indeed, alive. No toasts, no-self-congratulations, and certainly nothing intimate. She stares at the glassy look he gives her, and wonders if that is even a possibility anymore. Yeah, he let her sleep with him, but . . .

The very audacity of such a thought . . . he _let_ her sleep with him? The Richard Castle who pushed, pulled, bullied and smoothed his way into her life? The man who mercilessly and mirthfully yanked her pigtails for years . . . this man _allowing_ her to sleep with him?

She walks toward him, and only gets a few steps before she sees the empty bottle in his hand.

"Oh Rick," she almost whimpers, with tears quickly misting her eyes. She is gazing at her father all over again, in those first few hours where his demons arose and took over. The bottle dangles harmlessly from his first and middle fingers and his thumb. She glances down at her watch. She didn't have time – or even think – to take it off last night. Just after eight in the morning. And he's holding an empty bottle of bourbon in his hands.

"Good morning, Miss assistant district attorney," he mutters, his eyes rifling into hers, no expression in his voice. The greeting is so impersonal, and it cuts deep.

He's been awake now for over an hour, and has been in deep conversation with the admittedly now-lighter bottle of six-year old Jim Beam Devil's Cut Bourbon Whiskey. The conversation hasn't been a pleasant one. It has been consumed with thoughts of the Kate Beckett from his world, his timeline, and how she always seemed to find herself with the wrong man. Starting with her training instructor, to a couple of fellow cops, to a narcissistic, motorcycle driving doctor. It's merged with thoughts of this timeline's Kate Beckett, who apparently has similar bedtime habits, hooking up with a married Senator. And it had to be that Senator.

It has struck him – numerous times this morning – that their road always has been, and always will be a bumpy ride, a journey into unchartered and shark-infested waters.

"It seems," he begins, his voice dark, "that the universe seems committed – in any lifetime – to introduce darkness into our lives."

She opens her mouth to speak, but holds her tongue. Yesterday was the day from hell for Castle, she knows this. For all she knows, he is still in shock. Regardless, he has something on his mind, and he needs to talk. And just as importantly, she needs to hear what he is thinking.

"Whether we recognize the darkness and embrace it reject it is our choice – and evidently – a pattern, no matter which reality we find ourselves in."

He knows it's unfair to hold her responsible for his wife's death. But Bracken? Really? Both of those elements combined – he is struggling to get past them. And now his Kate and the Kate of this timeline are becoming blurred in his mind – it's wrong, it's unfair.

But he cannot help it.

It doesn't matter. His conversations with the strong, dark liquid this morning have – in fact – crystalized his thinking. While she slept, he has already planned his day out.

"I'm going back," he tells her quietly.

Her eyes grow large, and for a moment a fire erupts within. He sees it. He doesn't care. Nothing – and no one – is worth his baby girl.

"I'm going back," he repeats. "Don't worry. I won't kill your mother. Nothing so . . . draconian," he continues, and his tone offers no discussion, no negotiation. "But I _will_ stop her from going to that book signing. I saved your mother. Now I will save my daughter. You're more than welcome to join me if you want."

"Castle, I . . . of course I want Alexis back," she tells him. "I want that for you more than anything, Rick," she continues, thankful that he hasn't made this an unwinnable 'your mother or my daughter' choice. Her mind flies back to a war movie about the impossible choice of a mother, and is thankful that he hasn't put her in that position.

"Of course I will come," she tells him. "I want to be there. I have to be there. I want this new life – with my parents, with your daughter. We couldn't possibly have known this would happen, Castle. But now we do."

"Thank you," he replies quietly. Truth be told, he wasn't sure how she would react. His Kate – sure, she'd be with him in a New York minute, as the saying goes. But this timeline's Kate?

Who knows . . .

It's almost as if she is reading his mind.

"I'm not her, Castle," Kate tries to remind him, as she moves next to him, sitting on her knees between his legs, glancing up at him. "Her history, the choices she has made. She is a different person, Rick. She is not me. I'm not her. I'm here. I'm right here. With you. My heart is with you. It wasn't me who made those choices. It was someone else. You know this, don't you?"

She is almost pleading now, as she can see him weighing her words. It also strikes her that he has probably been fighting this little battle in his head for a while this morning now. And the alcohol can't possibly have helped her cause.

Not at all.

"Just like you aren't him, Rick," she continues, and this catches his attention. His eyes flicker with more life, more fire. "You are the man who has written countless books – about Derek Storm, about Nikki Heat. You are the man who was brave enough to follow me, case after case. Danger after danger. Whoever this man is with your name in this timeline – whoever he is – he is _not_ you. _You_ are _not him_!" she tells him with emphasis.

"The choices he has made – this was not you!" she repeats, her hands on either of his knees. Her eyes drop to the bottle in his hands. She reaches for it, glancing in his eyes and shaking her head – and even if it is only a symbolic gesture, he gets it.

"I . . . you're right," he acknowledges, and the empty bottle slips from his fingers, yet doesn't shatter as it bounces harmlessly off the wooden floor next to Kate.

"Damn right, I'm right," she tells him, growing in confidence. It's something she had given much thought to last night as she watched him sleep next to her, spooned inside her, their positions reversed from their normal sleeping arrangement.

She had considered their new realities. It was a frightening proposition for her to accept. Alexis dead. She, herself, with another man. _That_ man. And while Castle slept, she had grabbed her phone and started searching on the internet, searching this reality. She'd learned all about Meredith and Alexis, and their tragic deaths. She'd learned that he stopped writing. She'd learned that he'd become reclusive. She'd learned how Bracken has plucked her from an obscure, early attorney career. She idly wondered how – and why – he would select her. How could the universe be this cold, this calculating?

Yeah, it was frightening - until she remembered that she and Castle have one major, major advantage in this war against the universe that they have been thrust into.

They aren't unknowing participants in this new reality!

They have complete knowledge of what they consider to be their 'real' lives, their 'real' timelines. They don't have to accept this reality that they have been tossed into. They can reject it.

But going back in time again, to save Alexis? She has to honestly admit, that isn't something she'd truly considered, simply because she was tying that event – incorrectly – to her mother's life. But as Castle has suggested seconds ago, that's not the choice they need to limit themselves to. They can keep her mother alive, and still save his daughter.

And his wife.

For a brief instant, fear grips her heart as she considers the possibility – no, the likelihood – that they can go back and save Alexis and return to a reality where Castle is still happily married to Meredith and she, herself, is still . . . happily the mistress of a corrupt politician. Assuming Bracken is the same man in this timeline as he is in hers.

No matter. First things first. They have to take care of the problem at hand. Alexis is gone. They have to bring her back.

"So the question is, how are we going do this?" she asks him. "I know things are . . . different here for you now . . . I mean financially."

"Yeah," he replies, not offering anything more than the one-word response.

"So . . ."

He stares down at her for a moment before pulling himself up to a standing position. He reaches down, picking her up to her feet as well, and she notices his little hitch, and the brief instant of pain that etches his face before he recovers.

"What is it, Rick?" she asks.

"It's nothing," replies.

"No, it's not 'nothing'," she counters. "What happened? Why are you –"

"I'm going back, Kate," he interrupts. "I don't care what it costs me."

She begins to run her hands, gently but firmly along his legs, starting with his knees. Not seeing any response, she moves her hands further north, along and inside his thighs and around his hips. Getting no response, she gives him her best attempt at the Beckett stare.

"What's going on, Rick?" she asks.

He stares at her for a moment before relenting.

"My hip," he replies. "Something happened. Because of the trip we took. She told us that . . . well, now I know for certain what 'virtually' and 'almost' and 'nearly' mean."

She nods her head in understanding. She also realizes something that perhaps he does not. She's felt a pain in her chest. Right around her healed gunshot wound. Deep inside. Her heart has been damaged. It makes sense that – being torn down and put together again . . . twice – it makes sense that an already injured organ might come back . . . more damaged.

He doesn't need to know this, though. If he finds out, he won't let her come on this next trip. She knows this for certain.

"I'm sorry, Rick," she tell him, her hand falling to his hip, her fingers prodding gently. She won't even suggest he not go. She won't even suggest that she make the trip alone. He wouldn't allow it, she knows. Neither would she.

"So . . . what do we do?" she asks him.

"We go back to Kronologix," he tells her. "I certainly don't have millions of dollars . . . but Dr. Windholm knows we went back once, because she was there when we returned. So she has to have some knowledge of my . . . finances . . . we will have to appeal to her better nature."

"We might not have to," Kate tells him. "She moves away from him, and goes to the bed – to her side of the bed, and picks her phone off of the nightstand there. She walks slowly back to him, fiddling with her phone. When she returns to him, she hands him her phone.

"Look," is all she says to him.

He glances down at the small phone screen. It's a mobile bank application. Her account. His eyebrow raises in surprise as he looks at her bank balances

 _Checking, $22,347.19 Savings, $1,733,942.38_

"How . . . How?" he asks.

"I don't want to know, Castle," she replies, and he sees the sadness in her eyes. There is no way – no way at all that the assistant district attorney should have this kind of money.

"You . . . you know who I . . . you know who this reality's Kate Beckett is with," she reminds him. "I am afraid, Castle . . . so afraid that . . ."

She can't finish the thought, or the sentence. He finishes it for her.

"You're afraid that this city's assistant district attorney may be very similar to the ex-assistant DA of our timeline, all those years ago."

"It has to be that," she tells him. "How else would I have this kind of money? How else would the Assistant DA have that kind of bank account?. And live in that kind of apartment."

"Nice?" he asks.

"Nicer than anything you've lived in . . . ever," she tells him softly.

"Whoa," he whistles.

"That includes your Hampton's home," she tells him.

"Which I doubt that I have here," he tells her.

"I'm sorry, Castle."

"Don't be," he tells her with a dismissive wave of the hand. "I don't plan on staying here."

He glances back down at her phone, at the amounts there.

"Kate, I'm not asking you to give –"

"No one is asking you to ask," she interrupts. "However I have gained this money . . . it is ours. There is enough for us to do this."

He pulls her into a soft hug, his mood darkened by guilt. Guilt over blaming her for this. Guilt over the feelings he allowed to enter his consciousness . . . and take root. Guilt over the knowledge that as soon as she found out the tragedy of this timeline, she immediately has made the decision to change it. Regardless of the financial costs.

"Thank you, Kate," he offers. It's not much. But for her, it's more than enough.

"What are we waiting for, Castle," she tells him. "Let's get dressed and get over to Kronologix."

"They will be closed," he reminds her. "Remember she mentioned that she gives everyone Sundays off to be with –"

"That was our timeline, babe," she interrupts, as she moves away from him, heading to take a shower that eluded her at three households last night. "We don't know that this reality's Dr. Windholm shares those beliefs."

She pulls her panties down as she enters the bathroom, and looks back.

"Not everything is the same here, anymore, in case you haven't noticed," she smiles, hoping to bring a smile to his face.

It works. Different universe. Same result. He follows her into the bathroom, and shuts the door as she turns on the shower.


	15. Chapter 15

**Kairos – Chapter 15**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine J

.

 ** _Sunday Morning – April 28, 2013, 10:41 a.m., At the Kronologix Facility in Brooklyn, New York_**

.

The couple stands outside the non-descript warehouse building, glancing upward at the top floor – the fourth floor – taking in the building, taking in the sight of where – as Castle puts it – "it all went to hell in a handbasket without us even realizing it."

Earlier, after Kate's slight prodding, he had placed a call to Dr. Windholm and – sure enough – things are slightly different in this timeline with the good doctor as well. Gone is her softer understanding of 'family and spiritual time' in giving her employees Sundays off. In its place is a harder, more determined woman. That much was evident from their phone call.

The two have debated what may have caused the change in the woman's personality, but in the end, does it really matter? They have to see her. They have to go back.

That is their singular focus now, it is why they are standing outside Kronologix once again. They have to go back. So many things have to change. Beginning, of course, with Alexis. But it doesn't stop there.

During the morning sit at his loft and ride to this place, a solemn Castle brought Kate up to speed with everything he had learned.

Javier Esposito. Dead. Killed in the dirty bomb explosion that was previously stopped by Castle and Kate in their timeline.

Kevin Ryan. Ditto.

Both friends – more than friends to Kate – brothers really, gone. In a flash. Literally. They weren't just at ground zero. They were standing where Kate and Rick had stood.

 _"Where we should have been standing,"_ Kate had muttered sadly, as Castle told her the story.

He grabs her hand, and they begin to walk toward the front door, slowly entering the building. Both are immediately taken aback with the hustle and bustle of the place on this early Sunday morning.

"Not in Kansas anymore," Castle muses under his breath, noting the stark changes in the demeanor of workers. He also notices something else. The building interior is more . . . well, it's just colder, and not terms of temperature. Where the building from their timeline was warm and inviting, with brick interior that shouted out history, this building is . . . not. It is stark, bland, with bright lights that are more for visibility than atmosphere.

"Surprised we didn't notice this when we left yesterday," Kate whispers.

"I think we were both too excited to notice much of anything yesterday," he offers back to her, and she nods her head in agreement. They see the receptionist as they enter, and turn their attention to the attractive young woman behind the desk.

"We're here to see –"

"I'm right here, Mr. Castle," Dr. Windholm suddenly interrupts the two as they approach the reception desk. Neither had seen her come from the elevator.

"Good to see you again, Doctor," Castle tells her.

"Surprised to see you so soon, Mr. Castle," she remarks, and then gives Kate a long glance. Suddenly, Castle realizes that the woman is on edge a bit. More than a bit. It makes sense. It appears that Kate is something of a celebrity in this timeline. It follows that the CEO of a highly-advanced technology company – that is dabbling in things some people would frown upon – would be wary of a weekend visit from the Assistant DA.

"Miss Beckett," the doctor says to Kate, extending her hand.

"Dr. Windholm," Kate replies evenly. She's seen the change in the doctor and she, too, has quickly surmised the reason why. She files this away, knowing that she can use this to their advantage later, if need be.

"Let's go upstairs, shall we?" Dr. Windholm tells the couple, who fall in line, following the doctor to the bank of elevators.

"That's different," Castle says softly.

"What is?" Dr. Windholm asks.

"The elevators," Castle replies. "When we . . . left . . . when we made our trip yesterday, there was only one elevator car. Now there are three," he notes, as he wonders why such a change. It's a small thing, for certain, but right now all he is thinking about is ripples, ripples, ripples.

One small change here, causing a miniscule change there. But add them up, and you have a less friendly, colder, more antiseptic building – company – led by a harder, less friendly chief executive.

Ripples.

 _"How did we do_ _ **that**_ _?"_ he wonders to himself as they board the elevator. Unfortunately, his inner monologue of thoughts didn't stay silent. He's actually voiced the words.

"I thought so," Dr. Windholm exhales, and Castle and Kate can tell that the good doctor is barely pleased to see either of them.

"Thought what, Doctor?" Kate asks innocently. It doesn't work.

"Don't play games. You two broke protocol," she says evenly, eyeing Kate first and Castle second. "You signed documents swearing you would not do anything to alter the past. Obviously that is exactly what you did. I could tell yesterday when you returned. There was none of the 'awe' and 'wonder' of being in the past, of seeing past events. That's the reaction that everyone – without exception – has when they return. Except for you two."

Castle is about to say something when she raises her hand, rebuffing anything he might say.

"No, you both were excited all right . . . but not about what you had just seen. It was an excitement to see what was different now. This after I was clear – and the contract you signed was clear – that altering the past has repercussions that reverberate throughout time, moving forward."

The elevator is quiet as they ascend upward. The doctor is angry, barely able to contain her fury. This is the sort of thing that – if made public – can bring her company to its knees. And she's standing next to the city's Assistant DA, for heaven's sake.

The bell dings, and the doors open on the fourth floor, once again.

"Guilty as charged," Castle admits. "Let me explain. We –"

"Explain? Explain what?" Windhom interjects. "Explain why you potentially jeopardized countless lives because of a few changes you –"

"One change," Kate corrects her. It's clear that the doctor is aware that they have done something. There's no need to try to deny it. In truth, she and Castle came to this conclusion already, on their own this morning during their trip here to the facility. The only way they could reasonably ask to go back so quickly would be to admit what they had done.

"What did you do?" Windholm asks, as she walks to her desk. Once there, she stands behind her desk chair, arms now crossed as she eyes the couple.

"We saved my mother," Kate tells her.

Dr. Windholm looks at Kate – almost as if she is seeing right through the assistant DA – before recognition kicks in.

"Your mother . . . civil attorney . . . fine woman," she tells her, nodding her head. She notices the blank but hopeful stare from Kate.

"You know nothing about your mother do you?" she asks, not waiting for a response. "You've changed the timeline. In this timeline, you aren't even aware of your mother's reputation for taking on those cases for . . . well, for what the media likes to term 'the common people'."

"Truth is, I absolutely nothing about her since 1999," Kate admits. When Dr. Windholm only responds with raised, questioning eyebrows, Castle intervenes.

"Her mother was killed in January of 1999," Castle tells the doctor. This draws another raised eyebrow and a harrumphing sound from the doctor, who now quickly consults a calendar file on her monitor.

"But . . . I was right . . . you went back to December, 1998," Dr. Windholm reflects, staring at the entry on her computer. "Why would you go back weeks before she was . . . Oh God, please don't tell me you used my technology to go back and kill someone in the –"

"No, no!" Kate interrupts. "We . . ."

She isn't sure how to proceed, how much to say. Castle makes the decision for her.

"Actually, quite a few people died because of what we have done, Doctor," he tells her. "Well over a twelve hundred people, if current records are accurate."

Kate immediately throws him a look, which he just as quickly deflects.

"Clean slate, full disclosure," he reminds Kate. "Remember what we said. No secrets from the doctor. She . . . you," he says, now focused on the doctor, "you need to understand everything. You need to understand exactly what that damn ripple effect we spoke about before . . . what it really means."

Something about Castle's voice – about his stance now – touches the doctor, in an alarming way.

 _"More than twelve hundred people? Dead?"_ she thinks to herself, fear now slowly rising inside of her. She pulls her chair out, and sits. Putting her elbows on her desk, and her chin atop her folded hands, she addresses the couple in front of her.

"Maybe you two should sit down," she tells them nervously, and they quickly comply, as Castle continues the story.

"It's a long story, but let me summarize," Castle begins. "Back in the day, there was a group of dirty cops here in the city."

"What a stunner," Windholm muses sarcastically.

"Yeah, right . . . well," Castle continues, "these cops started . . . believe it or not . . . kidnapping mafia crime figures for ransom. I know, I know, it sounds kind of preposterous," he tells her as he notices the look of complete disbelief that passes across the doctor's face.

"Anyway, they kidnap these Mafiosi, and lo and behold, the Assistant District Attorney of that time finds out," Castle continues. "Except instead of turning them in, instead of prosecuting, this Assistant DA decides to insert himself into the scheme. He blackmails the group of cops involved."

"You can't be serious," the doctor remarks, clearly not buying into this. "This sounds more like a television show than –"

"Trust me, doctor," Castle tells her. "I wish I were joking. The assistant DA at that time was William Bracken."

With that, the doctor pushes herself away from her desk, her eyes widening.

"Shut the front door!" she exclaims, now folding her arms again.

They're losing her. They know it.

"Follow me on this, Doctor," Kate interrupts, drawing the scientist's attention back to her.

"Senator Bracken always had bigger plans than just being the top attorney for New York. He used the monies from the . . . blackmailing scheme . . . to finance his first political campaign. Part of a long-thought-out strategy to never have to raise monies from lobbies and other normal channels. That way he is beholden to no one. Think about it. He didn't come from money. Yet he never raised significant monies on his own."

Kate smiles as she sees the look of recognition in the doctor's eyes, and is relieved to get the confirmation that – as in her timeline – the William Bracken of this timeline didn't come from a family of money either. So, it begs the question – how does one who doesn't have money run effective political campaigns without raising large sums of money? Where does his massive war chest come from?

"And evidently, even in this timeline, that seems to hold true still, given the look on your face," Kate continues, focusing on the doctor. When the doctor's look of recognition turns to surprise, Kate lets the other shoe drop.

"I'm a cop, Doctor," Kate tells her. "The Kate Beckett of this timeline may be the Assistant DA, but for the past decade plus, I've been a cop in my timeline. Detective in the NYPD, and a damn good one."

"The best," Castle interjects, and she reaches for his hand, squeezing it. "Youngest ever to make detective in the city of New York."

"I wanted to be an attorney," Kate continues, "but when Mom was killed . . . those plans changed."

"How was she killed?" the doctor asks. "Assuming, that is, I buy this tale of yours."

"During the kidnappings, an undercover cop was killed," Kate begins.

"By a fellow cop," Castle adds, now taking over the story. Unbeknownst to the couple, the way they are stepping in and out, finishing each other's sentences is lending credence to the story. No one can practice something like this so quickly, unless it is . . . unless it is a story they have told for years.

Unless it is the truth.

"The cops – including the killer – framed another man, another Mafia guy, for the murder," Castle continues. "This guy –"

"Joe Pulgatti," Kate interjects.

"Pulgatti," Castle continues when he sees no recognition of the name from Dr. Windholm, "he goes to jail. But he's innocent of the murder. So he starts reaching out to a bunch of attorneys, wanting to appeal. Hoping someone will take his case."

"Problem is, he knows about the kidnappings, about the ransom, and about the blackmailing by the Assistant DA," Kate interjects.

"That's right," Castle continues. "And so when Johanna Beckett decides to take the case, and as far as she knows, it's just a case of wrongful conviction – initially she knows nothing about the whole scheme. A wrongful conviction is the type of case that got her attention."

"That's the type of case that would get her attention . . . here . . . as well," Dr. Windholm replies.

"But it doesn't matter," Kate interrupts. "Or, I mean to say, it didn't matter. She took the case. And because she took the case, now it is a bigger problem than she could have anticipated, because Bracken can't allow Pulgatti to blow the whistle on his operation."

"So he had Pulgatti killed?" Dr. Windholm interrupts, asking the question. This all sounds far-fetched. But that's why it is so believable also.

"I wish it had been so simple," Kate replies. "No – Bracken chose a more . . . harsh and final method. He killed my mother."

"He had her killed is the more accurate description," Castle corrects. Kate simply nods her head.

"He had her killed," she agrees. "Then he had his hired guns kill a couple more people in the same way – to make it look random. So that no one would ever piece together the motive. It worked. The case went cold, unsolved, declared a case of random gang violence crime." She spits these final words out.

"Big picture – let me cut to the chase," Castle interrupts again. His eyes are haunted. Dr. Windholm is only now noticing this. He looks haggard. Worn out. She idly wonders how he has been affected by whatever it is that these two have done.

"We went back to a specific point in time, a couple of weeks before Johanna Beckett's murder," Castle continues. "We intercepted the letter that Joe Pulgatti wrote to her firm from prison, asking her to take on his case. We made sure she never saw his request, and then we sent him back a reply indicating she wasn't interested."

The doctor now nods her head in understanding, pursing her lips.

"So your mother," she says, now looking at Kate, "never got the letter. She never took his case. Which saved her life."

Kate nods.

"And because her mother never died, Kate stayed out at Stanford, got her degree, went on to law school and became a lawyer," Castle remarks, now sitting back in his chair, taking a deep breath before continuing.

"And because Kate became a lawyer, that means that Kate never became a cop," Castle continues. "And because she never became a cop, I never shadowed her."

He sees the confusion on the doctor's face, and is ready to explain, when Kate interjects again.

"Let's back up a bit," Kate tells her. "In our reality, in our timeline, Castle is a wildly successful novelist. He's written multiple series of mystery novels. In this reality, he stopped writing."

"Fourteen years ago," Castle interrupts, his voice low.

"But in our reality, he was a successful author. A celebrity of sorts. And he shadowed me, and my team – helping us solve cases and getting ideas for new stories, new novels. Just go with me on this, okay?" Kate tells her when she sees the look of disbelief on the doctor's face.

"Castle and I solved a lot of cases together. One of those cases was a terrorist who tried to set off a dirty bomb in the city. Happened a couple of years ago."

Kate let's that hang there in the air. She nods after a few seconds when realization finally clicks with the scientist.

"Yeah, we solved that," Kate tells her. "Castle did, actually. The bomb never went off. No one died."

"That's what you meant when you said over a twelve hundred deaths," the doctor remarks weakly, almost whispering now to Castle. He simply nods his head.

"The city lost families. We lost friends. Good friends. Good cops. All over an event that shouldn't have happened. All over an event that would not have happened had I been a cop. Had we not gone back and changed my mother's fate."

"I . . ."

Dr. Windholm is literally twiddling her fingers on her desktop now as if playing a piano, lost in the possibilities. It's an audacious story, but exactly the type of unforeseen ripples she has often warned . . . and been warned about. On one hand, she is intrigued beyond measure. On the other hand, there is no way she can allow these stories to get out. Panic? Yeah, count on it. But something else also.

Anger. Retribution. Revenge against her company.

"We want to go back," Castle tells the doctor. "I'm not going to lie to –"

"Unlike last time," the now angry executive interrupts.

"We want to go back and reset things," Castle continues, undaunted. "We made a huge mistake. We need to correct that mistake. It will bring back – at least that we know of – over a thousand lives . . . over twelve hundred lives . . ."

He pauses for a few seconds, overcome with emotion, unable to contain the sadness that is bubbling over. Up to this point, he's done a marvelous job of remaining detached and repentant. Now, his real feelings are finding their way to the surface, as he thinks about his one, true motivation for going back. The twelve hundred or so people – that is for the doctor's benefit.

". . . including my daughter," he tells her, staring at the doctor with eyes misting with tears.

"Ah . . ." Dr. Windholm exclaims, now comfortable in finding Richard Castle's true motivation. "So there it is. Your real reason, the reason I see such sadness on you, Mr. Castle."

"Like I said," he tells her softly. "Full disclosure this time."

She is quiet for a moment, looking back and forth between the two as she gathers her thoughts in a workable fashion. Then she speaks.

"You mentioned that Mr. Castle stopped writing," she addresses to Kate.

"Because his daughter was killed," Kate replies, giving his hand another squeeze as he simply nods his head. She and Castle decided earlier that the doctor would see through any ruse of theirs, and so they have come clean.

"I cannot . . . I _will not_ exist without my daughter," Castle tells the doctor, and suddenly the sadness in his eyes is mixed with a determination and . . . and an unnerving urgency. "Not when she is gone because of me. Because of one thing that I did."

"We did," Kate corrects him. For Kate, this is all about getting Alexis back, getting Javier and Kevin Ryan back. Yeah, she realizes it is highly likely that – when they return back – she will still be in a relationship with William Bracken. She will still be his mistress. But she also has decided that she knows how to end things on that front. She has decided that she doesn't need time travel to get out of a relationship with Bracken. There will be ramifications, sure. But she's been at war with him in one timeline. If leaving him starts a new war in this timeline – a timeline with her mother still alive – so be it. She and Castle can fight that war.

The doctor pauses for a few seconds before speaking.

"Why – and I really mean this – but why in hell should I trust you . . . either of you . . . a second time?" she asks, angrily. "I sent you back, in good faith –"

"For two millions dollars," Castle adds, his eyes graying. "Not just for good faith." Kate gazes at the woman, and joins into the negotiation.

"I will tell you why you will do this, Dr. Windholm," Kate begins, her stare piercing through the woman. "You're going to do this because you don't want the Assistant District Attorney doing everything in her power to shut you down. You don't want me bringing the press here. You don't want me giving them a demonstration while telling them how things can go awfully awry."

"We don't need you for a demonstration, Doctor," Castle adds. "You know this. You explained everything to us in wonderful detail."

"I know you know who Senator William Bracken is," Kate continues, and yeah, that does it. She sees the fear quickly cloud the executive's eyes before she recovers. "Regardless of the history I have with him in my timeline, you know the good relationship I share with him here. He has mentored me for years. I need only place one phone call and he will take a far greater interest in what is happening here than I suspect you would be comfortable with."

Without hesitation, Kate takes her phone out of her purse, and starts scrolling through contacts.

"That won't be necessary . . . Detective," the doctor tells her quickly, intentionally using the detective title. "I'm sure we can work something out."

"I hate playing hardball like this," Castle admits to the doctor, offering her an olive branch after their bad cop/worse cop exchange. "I really do. But this . . . this timeline . . . it shouldn't be here. It wouldn't be here if not for me. I have to change things back."

"Back?" the doctor eyes them warily. "You're asking me to believe that you are both going back to allow her mother to be killed?" she asks Castle directly.

"Not exactly," he tells her, offering her the first hints of a small smile.


	16. Chapter 16

**Kairos – Chapter 16**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

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 **A/N:** Hi there. I hope everyone is doing well. I know the plan was to post 3 chapters a day, but I think Chapter 16 will be it for today. I think this is a good stopping point for one day. I hope you agree. We are headed out the door to orientation, and I will either post 17 tonight, or 17 and 18 tomorrow. Thanks for the reviews and especially all the PM's – interesting and highly entertaining discussions, as always.

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 ** _Sunday Morning – April 28, 2013, 11:27 a.m., At the Kronologix Facility in Brooklyn, New York_**

.

Castle slips the smooth, dark bracelet over his large fingers, allowing it to settle on his wrist, and watches Kate Beckett duplicate the action for herself. Both are standing outside the large cylinder that takes up most of the transport room here, seven floors below the street surface. He idly wonders – again – why this is so far below the earth's surface. Is there a scientific reason for this, one that allows for the destruction, transmission and reconstruction?

No matter – he walks to the computer terminal, per protocol, and enters in the coordinates and the timeframe.

Kate looks over his shoulder as he plugs in the time and date for this particular trip.

 _November 17, 1999_

He notices the hitch in her breathing as she gasps as he enters the date.

Her birthday.

Alexis and Meredith, killed in a car-pedestrian accident on her twentieth birthday – hit by a car where her mother was the passenger.

Yeah, the universe does love its little ironies.

He sadly nods his head at Kate, grabbing her hand, and leads them toward the entrance of the transport cylinder, when Dr. Windholm addresses them both, once again.

"I'd have you sign the appropriate documents again, but I think we all know that would be a waste of time, given your current plans," she tells them. "Let me remind you again, that you only have one hour before the bracelets bring you back, so you will need to act –"

"One hour?!" Castle and Kate both ask, incredulously.

"What do you mean 'one hour'?" Kate questions agitatedly.

"Last time we went, we had twenty hours!" Castle exclaims.

"We only took fifteen hours, I grant you, but . . . what do you mean we only have one hour?" Kate asks again.

"Twenty hours?" Dr. Windholm asks, eyebrows raised. "Why on earth would I want to give anyone twenty hours in the past, if the only reason to go back is to observe and document? Twenty hours? Fifteen hours? That's just begging someone to do something stupid. Which, let me again point out, you did!"

"I . . . well . . ." Castle is fumbling for words.

"You're telling me that my . . . my doppelganger from your timeline allowed visitors to travel back in time for up to twenty hours?" the scientist asks the couple in disbelief.

"Well, yes . . . that's what we are –"

"That's ridiculous," Windholm interrupts. "One hour. You have one hour. Not a second more. I'm sorry – but everything here has been programmed and calibrated for just one hour. I refuse to believe that you are telling me . . ."

She doesn't bother to complete the sentence. Evidently, the version of Dr. Windholm in their timeline was either too trusting, or highly manipulative. There is no way someone can spend almost a full day in the past without – intentionally or unintentionally – altering some element of that past. Just _being_ there in the past is an alteration in and of itself. But to be there for darn near a full day? No. It's a ridiculous notion.

In this timeline, some of her staff have argued – passionately, often and vigorously – that even one hour is too long. Some have taken the stance that – for observation purposes – thirty minutes is plenty of time. Others have argued that going back to watch the great battles in history, going back to watch the greatest events of history – that a single hour is too little time to document the Battle of the Little Big Horn, to visually record the Battle of Waterloo, to visually record the crucifixion of Christ, to visually capture the storming of the Bastille.

In the end, they all agreed – some more reluctantly than others – that it is just asking for trouble to place a human being back in time for more than an hour without expecting something to - intentionally or inadvertently - be impacted by their visit.

"One hour, Mr. Castle, Miss Beckett," Dr. Windholm repeats as she ushers both into the transport device.

No longer novices at this point, Castle takes his place at one end of the transport cylinder, while Kate stands on the other side. Both are gazing expectantly at the other, both now re-computing in their minds what they have to do, now knowing that they have far less time to accomplish their tasks. They may not have enough time . . .

As expected, the transparent wall drops from the ceiling between them. Neither are startled this time. Castle walks toward her, and sees the nervousness in her eyes as well. Time and tasks aside, it is the trip itself that is suddenly on both of their minds as the transparent wall drops. The experience of one's body being torn down into transportable data is . . . well, they know - from prior experience - that it is far from painless.

Both of their attentions are deflected to Dr. Sandra Windholm, now, as they hear her familiar count down. Somehow, familiar is comforting for this brief instant.

Three.

Two.

One.

Castle gazes at Kate, and sees her mouth open, her eyes widen, and a second later, before he can react, he is staring at the white, translucent residue outlining her body – a body that is no longer there. The powder begins to fall harmlessly to the ground. It is a sight that he will never get used to.

He is staring at the powder on the ground when he hears his own countdown.

Three.

Two.

One.

He throws his head back, as a quick flash of blinding pain assaults his body. And he is gone.

.

 ** _Wednesday Morning – November 17, 1999, 9:49 a.m., A few minutes outside Central Park in New York_**

.

Richard Castle glances at his watch and then back to the streets and buildings that fly by. Fifty-two minutes and counting. They've been back here in 1999 for eight minutes now. Three of those minutes have been spent inside this cab that they hailed as soon as they came out of the park.

Castle is – as one would expect – in decidedly better spirits now, if for no other reason than the simple fact that Alexis is alive. Yeah, it is almost fourteen years in the past, but she's still alive. He aims to keep it that way.

"Ten minutes to the bookstore," Kate tells him, grabbing his hand as they are now recalculating everything on the fly. They expected to have a lot more time than this.

According to the records from 2013 in their revised timeline, the accident was estimated to have occurred at 10:17 in the morning. The first 911 call had been placed at 10:19 – roughly two minutes later. They have given themselves just over thirty minutes to get there. Given that it is a fifteen minute cab ride, they should be fine. They should get to the bookstore around ten o'clock.

The plan is simple. Castle can't get too close to the bookstore. He can't risk – one – being seen by his doppelganger, and – two – he cannot get within fifty feet of the Richard Castle of this era. Doing so will mean death.

His death.

Recalling the words of Dr. Windholm – okay, the original Dr. Windholm – the bracelet will ensure the destruction of its wearer if the fifty foot proximity barrier is broken. His mind takes him back, and he is hearing the doctor's words once again.

 _"The time traveler will always be extinguished at the expense of the original owner of that time period when traveling to the past."_

So this is Kate's operation to run.

They will stop a block away from the bookstore, and Kate will make the final trek there on her own, waiting for Meredith and Alexis to show up. She has one job, and one job only. Keep them away from the front door. It's a simple delay tactic.

According to records, the cabbie's brakes went out, and the driver swerved onto the sidewalk instead of back into the street into traffic, or simply running into the parked vehicle at the curb. It was an impossible choice for the driver.

"You ready?" he asks her.

"Yes, babe," she replies. "I know what to do."

"I know you do," he replies, feeling a bit guilty, and very much uneasy at being reduced to a bystander. "It's just that –"

"Babe," she interrupts, squeezing his hand. "I won't insult you and tell you this is as important to me as it is to you . . . but it darn near is, okay? I've got this. I won't let anything happen to Alexis."

"Or Meredith," he adds.

"Well," she muses with a smile, "I'm not sure that saving the deep-fried twinkie you kept in your back pocket is the smartest move I could make."

"Beckett!" he whispers with some force, and shakes his head at her laughter.

They are quiet for the remaining few minutes of the ride, both lost in their own thoughts.

For Castle, this is about saving his daughter, and his ex-wife.

For Kate, it is that – plus the chance to see a younger version of her mother once again – if she can risk a glance back, that is.

His heart begins to race faster as he sees the cab driver pull over to the curb. They are a block away from the bookstore. Just the knowledge that he is a block away from himself . . . that he has a chance to see how others see him . . . it's almost overwhelming.

Then again, so is self-preservation, so no, he won't have to fight any unnatural urges to go and 'see himself', thank you very much. He's trusted Kate Beckett with so much already. He's trusted her with his life on more than one occasion.

He can trust her with the life of his daughter.

They exit the cab, and she falls into an easy rhythm next to him. They walk in silence until she points the bookstore out to him, some fifty yards ahead, and still across the street from where they currently stand.

"Game-time," she tells him. "You stay here."

She turns to him, and pulls his chin down to her lips, kissing him softly and quickly.

"And Castle," she reminds him. "For you own sake – and I mean that literally – for once when I tell you to 'stay here' . . . do it," she smiles. Before he can reply, she turns and starts a graceful jog across the street, ignoring the passenger walking lanes some fifty yards ahead of them.

"Jaywalker", he mutters to himself, and he knows it is simply his nerves. This is his daughter they are talking about. He does not like leaving the prospects of her life or death in anyone else's hands other than his own. Even hers.

Kate is a wonderful substitute, he acknowledges, but his paternal instincts are kicking in. He finds himself – despite her warnings and the warnings of the doctor – he finds himself wandering further down the street, down the block, when suddenly he feels a sharp pain in his wrist – right below the bracelet.

"Okay, okay!" he submits, quickly falling back a couple of steps. The pain subsides, and he tries, unsuccessfully, to rub the offending area underneath the bracelet. He is quickly recognizing the wisdom of limiting a traveler to one hour in the past, as he glances across the street, offering up a silent prayer.

.

 ** _Minutes Later, Wednesday Morning – November 17, 1999, 10:15 a.m., at a bookstore in the city_**

.

Kate's breath catches as she watches Meredith and Alexis exit the cab some forty feet away from her, past the wood and glass entrance of the bookstore. The mother and daughter are all smiles and giggles, and for a brief instant, a sharp pang of jealousy and doubt hammers the detective – slash – assistant district attorney.

It's ridiculous, of course, because Castle loves _her_ – not this version of a past wife coming toward her.

He loves her. She knows this. And she loves him. No, she doesn't tell him this nearly enough, she realizes – and that realization crystalizes in the instant that she sees the beautiful red-headed woman, walking toward her, hand-in-hand with his daughter. In this reality, Castle and Meredith are still married. Happily it appears, because the woman is – indeed – very pregnant – as they walk toward her.

Yeah, the doubts are creeping in. When they go back, his daughter will be alive, yeah, but odds are that Meredith will still be his wife. Where will that leave them?

Where will that leave her?

Plus, they only have time to do one thing on this trip. That is to save his daughter. They don't have time to do anything for Javier or Kevin. That's years away, still. She wonders how many of these trips they will be able to make. How many they will be able to afford to make. Financially and physically. She idly touches her chest, noting the slight increase in pain there. She pushes the thoughts out of her head, as she approaches the mother and daughter.

Kate's hair is pulled up into a bun, and she wears her large, dark sunglasses. They don't know her, at all. But the disguise isn't for now. The disguise is so they don't recognize her later – years from now – as their savior, and wonder how the Assistant DA can look exactly the same, some fourteen years later after a life-saving event that neither is likely to forget.

Less than five feet from the mother and daughter, she pulls out her NYPD badge – thank God she still has this – and calls out to the women.

"NYPD!" she says loudly, showing the surprised couple her badge and then using both hands to jostle the two backwards, away from the bookstore.

"I need you both to come with me, just for a few moments," she tells them women. Meredith, to her credit, does not put up fight, but instead allows Kate to move them backwards, forcing both of them to turn and almost jog with her. She's moving them quickly now as she hears the long, siren-like sound of a honking horn and a couple of screams behind her.

She hears the explosion of glass and wood, an awful sound as the cab crashes into the front window, slowed by the light pole on the corner. She fights her first instinct – which is to look back. She can't risk Johanna – her mother – seeing her either. Knowing that Castle's wife and daughter are now safe, she disengages from both.

"Uh . . . I'm sorry," she tells Meredith. "I am afraid I have made a mistake. Have a good day." With that, Kate jogs off, with Meredith's attention going back and forth between this mystery woman and the scene of the crash now some fifty yards in front of her. Only now is she starting to piece things together. This stranger has saved her. Saved Alexis. Had she not shown up, they would have either been at the door, or just inside the store when the cab hit. Either way, they would have most likely been killed.

Meredith whips her head back across the street, in the direction where the stranger had taken off towards. The woman is gone. She glances up and down the street, to no avail. The screams from inside the bookstore catch her attention.

"Richard!" she suddenly yells aloud, remembering that her husband is inside that bookstore. Now, her husband's well-being her only concern, she dashes quickly toward the retail establishment, Alexis in tow, to make sure that he is safe and sound.

Across the street, a tearful reunion occurs between two visitors who are quickly hailing a cab to take them back to Central Park.

 ** _Sunday Morning – April 28, 2013, 11:30 a.m., At the Kronologix Facility in Brooklyn, New York_**

He hears his own scream as the lights from the transport room flood his consciousness. Just as quickly the pain is gone.

Well, almost. He instinctively reaches for his hip. The ache is much more pronounced now. His lips purse in concern, as his eyes narrow, glancing down his leg. His eyes come back up and meet those of Kate Beckett, who is across from him in the transport cylinder, eyeing him curiously.

The transparent wall slides upward, and she quickly walks toward him.

"What's wrong?" she asks, and at the same time, the same question is being asked aloud by Dr. Windholm, who has noticed also.

"Are you all right, Mr. Castle?" the doctor asks, concern clearly evident in her voice.

"Nothing," he lies, his face immediately falling back into the carefree Richard Castle. He can't let them know anything is wrong, because he knows this isn't the last trip they have to make. They still need to save Javier and Kevin.

"First things first," he tells the two women as he whisks his cell phone out and immediately pulls up Alexis' contact screen. Touching her number, he listens as one ring, then a second, then a third sing in his ears. He's about to be concerned when he hears the familiar voice on the other end.

"Dad?" Alexis asks. "This . . . this is a surprise."

"Hey pumpkin," he replies, tears of joy in his eyes, offering a thumbs-up to Kate and the doctor. Kate has never seen him smile brighter or longer.

A smile of relief floods Kate's face, realizing that they were successful. Not only that – nothing else untoward has happened to the now young woman, in the thirteen-plus years that have transpired – in seconds for her and Castle – since the accident at the bookstore.

'Hey . . . uh . . . how are you Dad?" Alexis asks, and he hears the hesitation in her voice. And something else he cannot place. She seems almost . . . no, he pushes the thought away. He's just jumpy, and on edge – and for good reason.

"I'm good," he tells her. "I just wanted to hear your voice, that's all."

"Really?" she asks. "Since wh-"

She cuts herself off, halting the offending words before they completely leave her mouth. He's reaching out to her. That's new, in itself.

"Where are you?" he asks, a nagging concern drifting into his voice.

"At home," she replies.

"Great," he tells her. "I'm on my way. I will see you in bit."

"What?!" she replies in disbelief, but he doesn't hear this. He's already hung up. She hangs up, and puts her phone down on the nightstand.

Castle, for his part, is now moving, quickly.

"Let's go," he tells Kate. "Something's wrong."

"Mr. Castle, is everything all right?" Dr. Windholm ask again, as the couple rush out of room. "I hope that the trip was to your liking for both of you."

Kate offers a glare at the doctor, who immediately backs away unconsciously, confused by Kate's reaction. She reaches for Castle who is now rapidly in motion.

"Not now, Kate," he tells her, then glances backward. "Thank you, Doctor. For everything." He gives the doctor his brightest smile.

Minutes later they are outside, hailing a cab.

"You want to tell me what's wrong, Castle?" Kate asks, now slightly perturbed at his actions.

"Couple of things," he tells her. "First, Dr. Windholm was a lot nicer to us, more friendly to us when we returned. Which means that the timeline has reset again, and somehow, she doesn't remember the reason we went back this time."

"Or that this may have even been our second time," Kate muses aloud.

"Yeah," he agrees, "you might have a point there."

He considers this for a moment, but then changes gears.

"Anyway, something is wrong at home," he tells her. "Alexis is alive, don't get me wrong. But she . . . she was . . . it's almost as if she was surprised to hear from me. Or that she . . . she didn't want to hear from me. I don't know. I just know something's wrong."

"Are you sure, Castle?" Kate tells him. "I mean, after all we have seen already, are you sure you are . . . are you sure you aren't looking for something to be wrong. The doctor was different, and we know how timelines can dramatically change . . ."

"Maybe," he admits. "But I know Alexis. I know her mannerisms. This was . . . off . . . no, something is wrong here."

A cab pulls over to the curb and couple slides in.

"We're taking me to the loft," he tells her. "That's our first stop. My first stop," he corrects himself. "Then you are going to keep going, to your mother's house. That's the safest place for you right now. It's Sunday, so you aren't expected to be at work. At least I hope not. And who knows what . . . or rather, who . . . might be waiting for you at your apartment."

She nods her head, frowning. It makes sense. She can't just show up at his loft. Bringing the Assistant DA to his loft will invite questions. Questions from his wife, who for all they know, is still going to be there. Questions they don't have answers for right now. In this new, revised timeline, Kate hasn't been to his loft. Martha shouldn't know her. Neither should Alexis. And neither, hopefully, should Meredith. Perhaps they know of her – in her role for the city. But that's it.

The plan was to save Alexis. They've done that. Now, both of them are still – most likely – in relationships with someone else, as he tells her.

"Right now, we don't know who you are with, or who I am with," he continues. "I will go to the loft to figure my piece of this out. You go to your mother's, and figure that piece out."

"Actually, I will go to my apartment, Castle," she tells him. "Whatever is there, better that I find that out first-hand, and get my bearings."

"Fine," he tells her. "We can meet up later today . . . this afternoon or tonight."

"That makes sense," she agrees. "Six o'clock?"

"That works," he tells her, and they both fall into a comfortable silence, each in their own thoughts now, their fingers interlocked. Each considers what may be waiting for them at home.

Some thirty minutes later, the cab pulls over in front of his loft. He leans over, giving her a soft kiss which she extends.

"I love you, Kate," he tells her.

"I love you, Castle," she replies, smiling softly. "Call me."

"I _will_. As soon as I get the lay of the land here," he promises.

"Me, too," she remarks. He bangs the roof of the cab a couple of times, and watches as the vehicle pulls away. He turns his attention to the front door of his building, and steels himself with a deep breath.

"Here we go," he whispers to himself as he walks through the door into the building lobby.

"Hello Mr. Castle," he hears Mike Monroe greet him, and his face drops, disappointed at the formal greeting from the man who – for the past four or five years – has become a very good friend with whom he has often been on a first-name basis. And even when they haven't, well . . . this greeting is all too formal in his tone.

"Strike one," he mutters under his breath before recomposing himself.

"Hi Mike," he replies. "Always good to see you, my friend," he tells him, seeing the surprise in the man's eyes.

 _"No matter,"_ he thinks to himself. _"The past is past. I can change the present. I can change the future,"_ he tells himself silently, as he walks toward the elevator.

"Is Alexis still here?" he asks the security guard as he waits for the elevator car to arrive.

"Alexis? Your daughter, you mean?" Mike replies. "Uh . . . no, sir. She's not here. She hasn't been here in . . . gosh, years, Mr. Castle. Are you expecting her?"

"Strike two," Castle whispers sadly to himself, shaking his head. Yeah, it was all too good to be true. Evidently 'home' is not here for his daughter.

"My wife?" Castle asks weakly, now completely unprepared for whatever answer Mike Monroe gives him, either way.

"Yeah, she's up there," the guard replies with a smile.

Okay, at least that much is the same. Castle isn't sure whether to be happy about Meredith still being here at the loft, as his wife, or not. The door opens, and he steps onto the car, wondering where Alexis might be. College is one answer – and that settles well with him. For a while, Alexis wanted to go to Stanford, and even across the pond to the UK. At least _his_ Alexis wanted those things.

"Thanks Mike," he tells the man as the doors close. He takes a few deep breaths, gathering his thoughts. What in the world is he going to say to Meredith? How does he greet a wife that – in his mind and heart – is not his wife? A woman he no longer loves. Not in that way. How does he greet a woman who is likely still deeply in love _with him_ , when those feelings are not reciprocal?

Given the emotional battle going on in his head, the elevator ride is far too short. The doors open and he walks out. His steps are short and guarded. He knows he is stalling, and that brings a chuckle to his lips. He finally reaches the door to his loft home and chuckles again as he hesitates and almost knocks on the door. That's how out of place he feels at the moment. He wonders, for a brief instant, how Kate is going to fare before he slips his key in, and opens the door.

He takes a few steps into the loft, and at first glance, everything is in order. He exhales, smiling weakly as his eyes take in his surroundings. The smile freezes when he sees them.

On his mantle, the large portrait of Meredith and Alexis is gone, thankfully. No memorial needed. That's good news.

In its place, however, are a couple of Emmy statuettes. He walks closer, blinking in disbelief as he inspects the awards. Apparently, a few of the Derek Storm books have been turned into made-for-TV movies. And apparently, those network movies were critically well-received. He stands at the mantle, starting at the statues when a third one, a couple of inches behind and between the two Emmys, catches his eye. He stops breathing for a few seconds, and starts to laugh.

The Oscar – an Academy Award – seems to laugh back at him. He reaches through and behind the Emmy awards and grabs the Oscar that he – or this version of him – won for writing the original screenplay for a detective thriller.

He is both excited and frightened – now once again, fully aware from the first trip that every change comes at a price. He begins to wonder what cost to his life has been associated with the awards adorning his mantle. He continues walking through the loft, which he notes is decorated differently than he noticed just a night before. It seems that his wife's tastes have changed dramatically.

He walks into his bedroom – all seems fine. He hears the shower running from the master bathroom.

Meredith.

Taking a deep breath, he walks toward the bathroom, but then his conscience grabs him.

She's his wife, yes – but in his heart, she isn't. Should he really be walking in on a naked woman, when his heart is somewhere else? Then again, she's just as likely – knowing Meredith – to walk out into the bedroom naked. And if that happens – well, knowing his wild ex-wife . . . er . . . current wife . . . who knows what could happen from there? Perhaps taking the initiative himself is the safer choice.

Deciding upon his course, he walks to the master bathroom, and opens the door that is cracked open. Still, it is with trepidation that he enters and calls out, modestly careful to keep his vision down toward the floor.

"I'm home," he simply says in a sing-song type of voice.

'Babe', or 'Honey' or anything like that just doesn't feel right – wouldn't be right, given where his heart truly lies. There is no need in leading Meredith on. It wouldn't be fair. Still, he has no idea how he is going to play this.

"Ah, there you are, Richard," a hauntingly familiar voice purrs from the shower stall. The voice pulls his eyes upward from the floor. There is far too much steam in the room, and the glass on the shower door is completely fogged up, so he cannot see inside the stall. He can make out a figure, sure, but that's about it.

But the voice . . .

"I was wondering when my handsome husband would return," she comments as she turns the knob to the water off.

"Towel please, my love," she commands, as his chest begins to tighten. He unknowingly falls in line, reaching for a large bath towel hanging close by, as instructed. He is about to toss it over the top of the door when the glass door opens, and a golden, wet arm reaches out.

Behind the arm, though? He loses his breath momentarily, staring at the very naked, drop-dead beautiful woman stepping out of the shower, her body wet, glistening and perfect.

"Kyra," he manages to say, as he grabs a hold of the vanity behind him to sturdy his suddenly unsteady legs.

 _"Strike three."_


	17. Chapter 17

**Kairos – Chapter 17**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

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 ** _Sunday Afternoon – April 28, 2013, 12:10 p.m., At Richard Castle's Loft in New York City_**

.

Talk about the proverbial deer-in-the-headlights.

That describes Richard Castle perfectly right now. No, he wasn't sure what to expect when he arrived here to the loft, in this new, revised timeline. He should have prepared himself for anything. Okay, he thought he _had_ prepared himself for anything. It is, however, the second time in as many days that he has found himself walking into 'his home' and finding an unfamiliar, unwelcome life waiting for him.

Only this time, it is very, very different.

It isn't Meredith, thank God. There are far too many hard memories of Meredith, memories he'd rather not think about, given how their athletic and dysfunctional relationship ended. His deep-fried sweet appetite aside, this woman has left him scarred. Deeply. It's impacted how he conducted himself for years. It's not an excuse. It's not something he's proud of. But it is reality.

However, the 'reality' staring back at him right now?

His mind has – effectively – shut down for a few seconds. He's expected to see one person, and is standing in front of another. And the two could not be more different.

Yes, Meredith is the mother of his daughter. She was fun for a time, and damn, was she good in bed or what! Their sexual exploits are the things of legend. More than one hotel bedroom has been left in tatters by their . . . unusual and generally carefree activities.

But Meredith was also good in bed _with others_ . . . and that, _during_ their marriage.

Kyra?

There is no other way to say it; Kyra is the one who got away. The one he allowed to get away. The one his pride reared its ugly head towards and all but cast away. The one he should have pursued. Sure, he can blame her parents – who clearly wanted her to have nothing to do with him. And, in fact, early on he _did_ blame her parents. After all, it's easier than blaming oneself.

In reality, all it would have taken to keep Kyra was one airplane ticket.

One. Stupid. Airplane. Ticket.

He won't admit it to himself – much less to Kate – but during their little four-year dance around, had Kyra resurfaced and been available . . . who knows what might have happened? Well, let's just say that Kate's quixotic quest for justice, vengeance, whatever . . . it would have been a solo journey, sans Richard Castle. No, it's not that he isn't happy with Kate, because he is deliriously so. It's not that he doesn't love Kate to death, because he clearly does.

But Kyra? Here? Now?

Naked?

And she is obviously his wife? She called him 'husband'. A term that he would have – for a long, long time, been overjoyed to hear from her.

In his current frozen state, he finds himself paralyzed as the beautiful woman from his past – the one he allowed to walk away – takes a couple of sexy, cinema-quality steps to him, placing her small hands on his chest. She lifts herself up on her tip toes – still naked while holding the towel on her arm – and slips a soft kiss on his lips. He feels her tongue lick his lower lip, and without thinking he parts his lips, giving her access. Her tongue slowly floats beyond his lips and suddenly the scent of her bath soap rushes into his nostrils, overtaking him.

She is intoxicating.

His eyes instinctively close – against his better judgement – as he listens to her moan softly before she breaks away.

"It's still like kissing you for the first time, Rick," she tells him, almost out of breath.

 _"Damn,"_ he thinks to himself, as he quickly opens his eyes, blinking twice, as if not believing who is standing in front of him.

"Kyra," he whispers softly.

"Baby," she replies softly, and this time she reaches up and pulls him down to her level, into another kiss. This one is more passionate, deeper, longer, and he finds his arms acting on their own, rising up to hold her shoulders first, and then slowly dropping down to the side of her breasts.

Perhaps it is that motion, and just the slight feeling of what is there, just inches from his fingers, that jolts him back to reality. His arms quickly drop, and he pulls away from his long-lost and departed love. His action has the anticipated response. Her eyes open in surprise, wondering what's wrong. He sees it immediately and his quick mind saves him.

"Wow," he exclaims, and it's an honest and true response. "I just remembered . . . hold that thought," he concludes as he dashes out of the expansive bathroom, trying to get his mind back in working order, and simultaneously searching for a reason to explain his sudden departure.

,

 ** _Sunday Afternoon – April 28, 2013, 12:27 p.m., At Kate Beckett's High Rise Apartment_**

.

Kate Beckett walks into the lobby of her apartment complex, and with her first step inside the lobby, it hits her that this is the second time she has come to the complex, and it is the second time she has come here without a key.

Of course she doesn't have a key. She's never really lived here. A version of Kate has lived here, but her. When she arrived last time – just a day or two ago, she is losing track of time now, ironically – she didn't have a key and Stanley had to take her up to the thirty-seventh floor. And if memory serves, neither Stanley nor his companion were awfully glad to see her, and it wasn't due to either of them being unfriendly.

It was her.

With a slight hesitation, she walks through the lobby toward the security desk. What a difference a timeline makes. The friendly greeting both enlightens and frightens the hell out of her.

"Ah, Mrs. District Attorney," Stanley greets her. Kate's heart all but stops.

His tone is both casual and friendly – clearly an improvement from the last time. That's the good news. However, she hasn't missed the fact that he neglected to include the word 'assistant'. Evidently in this timeline her upward mobility is even more accelerated.

But it's the word that _was_ said that has caused her current cardiac predicament.

 _"Mrs."_

Yeah, that word.

 _"Oh shit,"_ she thinks to herself, knowing this can't be good. Castle was married in the other timeline, and probably still is in this one. Now she is married, too.

They just can't seem to catch a break.

"Hi Stanley," she offers weakly, but her voice friendly.

"I didn't see you leave," he tells her, glancing at his watch.

"I have to keep you on your toes," she smiles to the guard, sensing a much looser and more casual relationship is in play in this timeline.

"I forgot my key again," she tells him with a roll of the eyes. "Would you mind –"

"That's no problem," he tells her. "Your husband isn't here, as you know. Busy on Capitol Hill these days, what with the threat of a government shutdown. If you don't have your key, let me make you another one real quick."

 _"Your husband,"_ Kate thinks to herself, now redoubling her original fears and replacing them with new ones. She's married, married to a politician evidently, and her first thought – fear, really – is that it is Bracken. As if the idea of being the man's mistress wasn't distasteful enough, now she has to consider the horror of being married to the man.

"Here you go," Stanley tells her. "39E as requested."

"Thank you, Stanley," she offers, noting the new floor. "I owe you one." She also doesn't miss the fact that just a day or two ago in a different timeline, taking the time to make her an extra key wasn't such an easy task.

"Good luck this week with the case," he tells her. "We're rooting for you. It's always good to see a dirty cop get taken down."

That one raises the hairs on her neck, as any discussion regarding dirty cops is just a little too close for comfort for Kate's liking. She wants – so badly – to ask what he is talking about, but of course that's not an option. She mentally makes a note to herself to do a quick internet search when she gets in her apartment to see what this is about.

"Thank you again, Stanley," Kate tells him again, entering the elevator.

"I'm keeping count, there," he chuckles to her. "Just in case I ever need a free pass."

He laughs, gives her a small salute as the elevator doors close, giving Kate momentary privacy. Her mind is a NASCAR race on a Saturday afternoon – running loud, fast and furious – as the elevator begins its long trek upward. She desperately wants to text Castle, but that can wait until she gets to her apartment, since Stanley has assured her that there is no one there. Whoever she is married to is busy back in Washington, D.C., so she will have some time to herself, this time, to get her thoughts together.

She watches the numbers flash by, mentally preparing herself to step off on the thirty-seventh floor when she remembers that Stanley has told her she is on floor thirty-nine.

 _"More changes,"_ she thinks to herself as she flies past floors thirty-seven and thirty-eight, coming to rest finally on the floor just below the penthouse level. She disembarks from the elevator and turns left and right, getting her bearings before walking toward the right, stopping in front of 39E, the last door on the left. Actually, the last door period, and she can tell before she opens the door that the loft she is getting ready to enter wraps around the side of the building.

Kate enters, and closes the door behind her quickly. She turns, her back falling back against the closed door, and allows her eyes to scan the massive room. As far as she can see are floor-to-ceiling windows that – from this vantage point – wrap around the building to the right. There, she notes, is also a spiral staircase, leading up to the top floor. She shakes the Alice-in-Wonderland thoughts away, glancing now throughout an apartment home that takes up the top two floors – at least on this end of the building.

Evidently, she lives well in this timeline also. Even more so.

She gazes at the art work that adorns the walls and small tables. It's of the expensive, and old-world variety. She walks toward the fireplace – a massive, stone beast that is clearly the focal point for the large living room – and her eyes are immediately drawn to the picture in a frame at the edge of the mantle.

It is a picture of Kate Beckett and William Bracken. Her face is leaning into his, the classic husband and wife casual picture. It's not a formal portrait, but most likely a picture taken by a friend. The backdrop is clearly Hawaii as she sees the evidence of luau paraphernalia behind them as they stand on the beach.

Her heart drops, as the very thought of the man she hates - she loathes above all others - being the man she is married to. The man she is intimate with. She finds tears of frustration forming in her eyes as her mind begs to understand the calamity that has to have occurred to put her in this man's bed, in his heart, with dual rings on their fingers. The noise in her head grows louder, until she suddenly realizes that it isn't her inner monologue or thoughts pouring out. There's a noise inside.

She's not alone in here!

"I thought I heard you come in, Miss Kate."

She turns to see an older woman – probably in her late fifties – come around the corner. She has something in her hands – a rag of some sort, Kate thinks – and it's clear that this is a cleaning woman who has free reign of the house.

Okay, so this makes sense. If she can afford this place . . . if they can afford this place, then having someone here to clean the place isn't out of the question. And Stanley, now that she thinks about it, didn't say no one was up here. He simply said that her husband wasn't here.

But there is something else that has now caught her attention.

The higher pitched voice startles her, as does the young girl – maybe five years old – that walks around the corner and sees her. The young girl wears a soft, yellow dress with pleats. She looks as delicate as a solitary lily in a garden stretching skyward. The girl's eyes grow large, as if she is surprised to see Kate here. She rushes forward, toward Kate, her arms lifted upward as she runs.

"Mommy! Mommy!" she cries and buries herself into Kate's waist. Without thinking and without hesitation, Kate's hands instinctively surround the beautiful young girl. The tears of frustration that were forming in her eyes now spill forward, brought on not by frustration but the unimaginable joy of a woman who has secretly longed – for years – to hear that word spoken to her, but had long ago given up on hearing it any time soon.

 _Mommy._

Kate's arms wrap around the little girl, and the words escape her mouth before she even realizes she is thinking them.

"Hey there, precious," she greets her daughter, for the first time, and unknowingly tightening her grip before catching herself.

"Madison, give your mother a chance to catch her breath, love," the older woman tells the young girl, and now Kate is rethinking her previous assumption.

 _"More like a nanny than housekeeper,"_ she thinks to herself, now watching the young girl's interaction with the older woman. The affection between the two is clear. Kate gazes down at the young girl in her arms, and another tear falls. There is no doubt - absolutely none – that she is looking down at her own daughter. She is looking at herself, three decades ago.

The young girl has her eyes. She has her hair, locks and all. She has her gangly but dainty look. And her smile dazzles her like no other.

"Mommy, you're crying," little Madison notices, and within seconds, duplicate tears have formed in the young girls eyes.

"Are you sad, Mommy?" Madison asks. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing baby girl," Kate replies, wiping a tear away. "Mommy . . ."

She chokes on the word.

"Mommy is just so happy to see you," Kate tells her, and the beautiful smile that plants itself across little Madison's face is just too much for her. She holds her closer, tighter. She knows it's not real. But dammit, it _is_ real! She's here. With her daughter. For now, her monster of a husband is far, far out of mind.

"Miss Cassandra, I thought you said Mommy was gone today," Madison asks, a bit of confusion leaking through.

"I'm surprised to see you, Miss Kate," Cassandra replies, both to Madison and to Kate. "I thought you had work to do this morning in the office."

"It's Sunday," Kate offers up. It's just a white lie, nothing serious, she tells herself. "I decided I wanted to spend some time with my favorite little girl."

"Yaay!" Madison screams, and pulls out of her mother's embrace. "The park, Mommy? Can we go to the park?" she asks, already running to her room to change clothes.

"The park it is," Kate agrees, smiling, feeling happier than she has in . . . in a long time. Just that thought alone punches her in the gut, guilt seeping though.

"I was going to take her to the museum, but we both know she'd rather be at the park," Cassandra smiles.

"That we do," Kate agrees, nodding her head. "Let me run and freshen up, and we will both be out of your hair for the afternoon," Kate tells the woman, continuing to smile.

"Are you sure, Miss Kate?" Cassandra asks. "I don't mind accompanying the two of you to –"

"Consider it an afternoon off, Cassandra," Kate tells her, and the reply on the older woman's face tells her that this is a huge aberration. "You go on, help Madison while I get ready."

Kate excuses herself, and by sheer luck alone correctly walks to the left where she suspects her master bedroom would be.

 _Their_ master bedroom.

She enters the room, closing the door halfway, and turns toward the interior of the room, taking in the sights quickly with detective observation skills honed over a decade and more. She notes the surprising number of photos of herself and William Bracken, from various locales. She notes the pictures of young Madison, both alone and with her parents. Quite a few are just Madison and Kate, and quite a few of Madison and her father.

"God," Kate exclaims, sitting on the bed, her head in her hands. Her thoughts are of Richard Castle. Her thoughts are of Kevin Ryan and Javier Esposito.

And her thoughts are of a small little flower getting ready on the other side of the loft, with a growing realization that she just might not be able to leave this little girl – perfect timeline or not.

.

 **A/N:** Some may not appreciate Castle's response to Kyra kissing him, but I like to think it is some type of poetic justice. A lot of us – myself included – took exception with Kate Beckett responding to that kiss from Eric Vaughn that – in this AU take – would have occurred this week, since last week she was standing on the bomb during "Still". Some have argued that Kate should not have kissed him back, given her relationship with Castle. Many of us thought it was bad writing on the part of the canon writers. Count me in that camp.

However . . . turn the tables, put Castle in that position. Put Castle in that position with Kyra Blaine. How would he have reacted, if Kyra were not married, or not even engaged to be married. I thought throwing that notion into play here would be fun, and a little though-provoking. I'm not saying that it would be _right_ for Castle to respond in this fashion . . . just saying that I could see it happening.


	18. Chapter 18

**Kairos – Chapter 18**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

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 ** _Sunday Afternoon – April 28, 2013, 12:14 p.m., At Richard Castle's Loft in New York City_**

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A very distracted Richard Castle is talking to himself in the living room of his loft home, pacing back and forth. Occasionally, he casts a nervous glance down the hallway toward his bedroom.

Where she is.

He has his mobile phone up to his ear. There is no phone call in progress, of course, but he has to keep up the appearance of being on a call in case she comes out suddenly. He's not ready to talk to her – not yet – and he _definitely_ is not ready for _more_ than talk.

Now, there are certainly some parts of his body that might violently disagree with that assessment, but for the most part, he has been able to successfully club those non-thinking components back into submission.

For now.

 _"Think, writer, think, dammit!"_ he tells himself. He needs a reasonable and believable excuse as to why he launched himself from her embrace – and from his . . . no . . . from _their_ bathroom. And he needs to come up with a plan, pronto. This was totally unexpected. He is finding that sums up pretty much every timeline except for the original one he and Beckett left. That seems like eons ago now.

Worst case, he expected to see Meredith here in his home when he came in. Meredith he could have dealt with. He already had an idea in his head regarding how he would handle her.

Best case, he expected to see Alexis. That was the whole reason for going back again – to make sure Alexis was okay. That was the plan.

Reality?

Neither one of them are here.

And despite the absolutely stunning and very naked woman currently drying herself off in his bathroom, a woman that in pretty much any reality he would desire . . . his thoughts are of Alexis. And why she isn't here. And of Mike Monroe's words to him downstairs.

 _"She hasn't been here in . . . gosh, years, Mr. Castle. Are you expecting her?"_

So evidently, he and Meredith divorced. Okay, got it. The last timeline notwithstanding, he understands that development, sad as it may be. That he and Meredith are happily married in any timeline is a stunner, for certain.

But for he and Meredith to divorce . . . and he allow Alexis to go with her mother? She hasn't been here for years, so that means somehow he – Richard Castle – has chosen his long-lost love in Kyra Blaine over his own pumpkin? No – that makes no sense whatsoever.

"No, no, no!" he shakes his head violently, cursing out the words. He cannot fathom any reality, any universe - any possible timeline where he would give up his daughter.

Not for a woman. Not for a job. Not for privilege. Not for anything or anyone.

Yet here he stands, in his plush loft home, golden statuettes spitting professional accolades from the mantle, the most beautiful woman – inside and outside - he's ever known unabashedly throwing herself at him . . . but there is no Alexis Castle in sight.

According to Mike, there hasn't been for years.

Years!

Clearly, the Richard Castle of this time period has a very different set of priorities, and a certain red-headed daughter isn't at the top of that list.

He shakes his head again, unable and unwilling to participate in this colorized version of a bad Twilight Zone episode. Yet participate he must – at least for the next couple of hours or so. He can't just bolt out of here again. First of all, where would he go? More, this may not be a timeline he is familiar with, it may not be one he asked for. But it is his reality now.

He considers – for a moment – the timeline he and Kate just left behind. A timeline without Alexis. A timeline where he is has turned into something of a recluse. A timeline where his ex-wife is dead, and he is a certified alcoholic who has shut himself off from pretty much everything and everyone.

So yeah, new surprises aside, this timeline is leaps and bounds better than what he just left, and that doesn't even take into account who Kate may or may not be with in this particular timeline.

Like it or not, this timeline is a better option. More, this is now home.

And then there is Kyra.

He finds himself feather-blown surprised that there is something still inside him for Kyra. Something he didn't realize was still there. He never gave her a second thought in the past few years, even after that case with her the night before her wedding. It only took days for him to put that behind him, because she was unavailable, unattainable, out of his reach. But the minute the universe put her back into his orbit, something sparked. Old feelings didn't necessarily return, but the kindling was certainly lit. He knows that he can't just toss this woman – and her feelings – around casually, while he gets his head, and act, together. Who is he kidding? Because it is Kyra, he couldn't if he wanted to.

It hits him quickly, as he puts a few numbers together, adding one and one and coming up with the right answer.

It's just after noon, and his 'wife' has obviously just recently awakened and has finished showering. In any reality, in any universe - what would Richard Castle do at this point for a wife, who has just awakened and has just stepped out of the shower?

He'd fix her breakfast.

 _"Actually I'd fix her breakfast after sex,"_ he muses to himself, _"but that's so not an option right now."_

He's moving quickly now, his serious game face on, gathering eggs and bacon out of the fridge, and grabbing a loaf of bread from the breadbox. He's glad everything is still in the same place as he would expect them to be.

He pulls a dual, split-cut skillet out from the shelving unit below the island that will allow him to cook the bacon and eggs simultaneously, and turns the fire on. He's doing all of this with one hand, while the other continues to cradle his cell phone along his ear, allowing him to appear on the phone, his eyes still darting toward his bedroom.

The ruse works, as he hears her walking down the hallway, coming from the bedroom. He falls into his role, as the first pieces of bacon are slapped into the skillet.

"Okay, that sounds great," he mock speaks into the phone, feigning excitement – all for her benefit, of course. "And again, I'm sorry for not calling back right away. I'll get this taken care of," he concludes, pretending to hang up the call as he turns and faces her.

Despite his best effort and mental preparations, his breath leaves him.

She's wearing one of his white button-down business shirts, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. And nothing else. Her hair is still a bit damp from the shower, hanging down below her shoulders. She is a vision, and his mind unwillingly travels back years into the past, retrieving images of a Kyra from long ago.

She looks even more beautiful now than ever.

"Breakfast," she smiles, softly with a look of pure contentment on her face.

"You're just the best, Rick."

"I aim to please," he tells her, hoping that his natural act is consistent in this reality as well. "Sorry about bolting out like that back there -," he begins, but she cuts him off.

"Well, I would hope so," she tells him, as she pulls alongside him and slowly, seductively buries her face into his chest. The smell of her shampoo, the scent of the perfume she has oh so lightly sprayed . . . they assault him. He locks his knees just to keep standing as he speaks.

"It's just when I was touching you, a thought flashed before my eyes and I remembered that I forgot to call someone back about a new idea I'm pitching," he lies with a small gulp. He hopes it works.

"My naked body causes you to remember to run to the phone and pitch an idea you have?" she questions, eyebrows raised. "Since when did I have _that_ effect on you?"

"Please," he offers her, giving her a playful swat on her rear. "You know what you do to me."

He is now realizing that breakfast is going to have to cook pretty damn quickly, or else he is in serious trouble. Running out of the bathroom to make a phone call, well . . . she might buy that.

Running out of the suddenly very hot kitchen? Bolting out of their home?

No, she won't buy that one.

Fortunately, fate gives him a break, of sorts.

"After we eat, I have to run," she 'reminds' him as she steps towards the large bank of cabinets in the kitchen. He intentionally plays ignorant – which isn't all that difficult to do, given his current circumstances.

"Gina and I are meeting with ABC at one-thirty," she continues. "Don't tell me you've forgotten. I need to lay the groundwork for tomorrow night's interview with Katie."

"That's right," he tells her, pretending to remember. "Remind me, what time do you think you will be back?"

"No later than five," she tells him, ready to pop the bread into the toaster.

"Not yet," he tells her. "Give the bacon a few more minutes."

"Remember, your flight leaves tomorrow morning, so you need to get into bed early, my love," she tells him.

He nods his head, mentally making a note to check the computer in his den. If he has a flight tomorrow, then he likely has a check-in reminder. He idly wonders where this flight is headed, but there's no need to ask Kyra any questions about his flight. He will get access to all of that information.

But an interview? With Katie?

 _"Has to be Couric,"_ he thinks to himself. _"That's a new one."_

And that could be problematic.

He glances up at the wall clock in the kitchen. Just under six hours before he needs to meet with Kate Beckett. His wife will be gone for a few hours – prepping for a meeting with who he assumes to be Couric, or one of her representatives – until around five at the latest. He's going to have to find a reason to be out of the place by four. Until then, he will use the time Kyra is gone to do some searches online. He's got to find out where Alexis is, and what has happened. Then another thought hits him.

Meredith was pregnant.

They aren't married anymore, but he now wonders if she had the baby. And if so, where is _that_ child? Is this timeline's Richard Castle really the type to walk away from not one, but two children? And not see them for years?

 _"Wait a second,"_ he silently reminds himself. _"Mike said Alexis hasn't been here in years. That doesn't mean that I haven't visited her. Wherever she is. Probably California. Yeah, that makes sense. Meredith went to California . . . in my timeline . . . but this is my timeline, too. Kyra's here. And she knows me. And evidently she's good friends with Gina. Gina. Damn, I wonder if I married her in this timeline, also . . . And why is Kyra meeting with her in the first place? What does Kyra do for me? Is she my –"_

"Earth to Richard," he hears his wife call to him, and pointing to the bacon, which is starting to slightly burn.

"Oops," he gives her, flipping the multiple pieces and immediately reaches for the bowl that has four cracked eggs swimming. Giving the eggs one final beating, he pours the liquefied eggs into the other slot of the skillet. The sizzling sound – along with the aroma – mixes with that of the bacon, giving the breakfast that is cooking a new atmosphere of sights and smells.

"That must have been some phone call," Kyra tells him, as she walks to the refrigerator and pulls out a quart of orange juice.

"Sorry," he tells her. "Just a bit pre-occupied . . . and realizing I missed out on some quality personal time with a very beautiful woman," he gives her with a wink.

"Ah, _there_ he is," she tells him, as she reaches up into the cabinet to grab two glasses, intentionally rubbing her ass up against him. "Glad to have you back, Mr. Castle."

"Never went anywhere, Mrs. Castle, trust me," he tells her, moving back to the stove to flip the bacon, trying to delicately put some distance between them. He pushes the bread down into the toaster and turns to face her. It stuns him how easily – how quickly – he has fallen into this bantering routine. It reminds him of exactly what he had in Kyra Blaine . . . what he had lost . . . and what, somehow, the heavens have given back to him.

He wonders if he should consider it a gift or a test.

"Should be no more than a minute now," he tells her, as he moves to grab some silverware to place on the bar top on the island behind them – eager to keep in motion. If she rubs up against him one more time . . . well . . .

The next ten or so minutes – thankfully – go off without a hitch. They eat in comfortable chatter. There's an occasional touch of the feet, initiated by Kyra, and talk of the meeting that she will be leaving for shortly. A little over half an hour later, she is out the door, a lingering kiss left on his lips. He closes the door, licking his lips, his mind now a not-so-finely tuned Ferrari that is continually misfiring, badly in need of a tune-up.

He's not re-thinking Kate. That's not it at all. He's just noticing differences. Massive ones. Like the solid hour of intimacy he's just shared with Kyra Castle. Not sexually, of course, but in pretty much every other way possible. It occurs to him that this type of intimacy is missing from his current relationship with Kate Beckett. Oh, they're playful, yes, and the sex is unbelievable. But just a simple breakfast has given him a glimpse at what is missing in their relationship. Somehow, there is a barrier, an emotional divide that he hasn't noticed before.

And it's taken just one damn hour with Kyra to point it out to him.

And then there is something else. Something he doesn't want to face. But has just spent the last hour slapping his, and so it is all but unavoidable now. It's something he has found himself saying to Kate all too often since that night she showed up at his door, dripping wet, apologies and confessions in hand.

He has often – during snuggling moments at night in bed, or across the table for a candlelit dinner – told Kate that they were just 'meant to be'. The reason they are together, despite all the obstacles they have faced and beaten – and there have been many – is that they were just meant to be together. It was fate. It was destiny.

 _"There is no universe, no reality where you and I don't belong together,"_ he has often told her during the past eight to ten months, usually in those moments where she is wavering, where she is wondering about their future. Usually when he is trying to convince her to stay the course.

Now, he knows those words to be nothing more than romantic sentiment, at best. They have just seen two different alternatives of their universe, and they aren't together in either of them. In one, he is with Meredith. In another, he is with Kyra.

In one, he found happiness – and evidently – loyalty with his first wife.

In another, he found happiness – and very clearly – personal and professional togetherness with his first true love.

And Kate?

She's a mistress to a monster in one. And God only knows what this current timeline holds for her. But clearly it isn't him.

Whether it means he has to try harder, or she has to try harder, or they both need to drop their guard further – who knows. Certainly not him. It's not an answer he has at the moment. But he has questions. Lots of them.

For now, he puts them aside, as he takes on another task that has been weighing on him since his mad dash from the bathroom over an hour ago.

He starts walking through the loft – his home – frantic to find what he does not see. He glances about the living room. He sees the statuettes, the awards, and continues past them. They are nothing to him. He didn't win them. Someone else did.

"Come on, dammit!" he says aloud, disappointed with not finding it yet. Not finding them yet. They have to be here. He goes back into the bedroom, glancing around, and frowns. Nothing.

"Impossible," he mutters. "What kind of asshole am I in this universe?" he asks aloud, now heading into the bathroom. He's confident he won't find any here, but he still has to look. Seconds later, he is walking – briskly now – back toward the front, and makes a turn into his den. His workplace. Surely he will find it here. He can't be this bad of . . .

He lets a long breath flow mercifully from his lips as he sees one . . . then a second . . . then another. The picture of the redheaded youngster in a frame stares back at him. She can't be more than five years old. The second one seems about the same age. He glances over to his desk, where a third one sits. This one is older. She seems to be about seventeen, eighteen. Probably taken in the past year. And next to her, is a young boy. He seems to be about twelve or thirteen.

Her brother.

His son.

Both have their mother's red hair.

Next to this picture is another picture of the boy, this one younger, standing with his father. Standing with him. Both seem happy.

He blinks away a tear that blocks his vision, wondering just what kind of man he has become in this timeline to leave his children.

Pursing his lips, he sits down, and reaches for the mouse on the desktop. Opening a browser, his mind racing with questions now, he pulls up his first search.


	19. Chapter 19

**Kairos – Chapter 19**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

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 ** _Sunday Afternoon – April 28, 2013, 1:34 p.m., At the private park within Kate's High-Rise Apartment_**

.

Kate Beckett finds herself smiling broadly – so much so that her mouth is now actually starting to feel almost . . . tired. Aching. From happiness.

And yes, this is a definite first for her.

It is a first for a woman whose entire adulthood has been defined by a shattered family, by the permanent loss of a mother and the temporary loss of a father. For this woman, the last half hour has been nothing short of spectacular. She has watched a tiny duplicate version of herself at play. She revels in the innocence, the wonder that she recognizes in the young girl's eyes. At this age, there are new things in life to discover every day. Every minute of every day. She idly wonders when she – or any adult – lost that wonder.

For her, of course – it's an easy answer.

Madison giggles about something, and Kate realizes that young Madison is everything young Kate was in her youth. She is energetic. She is playful. She is inquisitive.

And she has a motor that just won't quit.

In less than thirty-five minutes the young girl has pulled her mother to the swing sets, the see-saw, the monkey bars, the spinning wheel, they have buried her Barbie doll and then dug her up again only to bury her once more in a different place – evidently she has some of the little tomboy in her that Kate had as well.

Now, a detective-slash-district attorney who has spent her adult years chasing criminals through the streets of New York, now this woman finds herself leaning back into the wooden bench, gasping for air, wondering where all of her energy has gone.

She chuckles at the words she has often heard from mothers who wonder aloud why an unlimited amount of energy is granted by heaven to the young when it is clearly the older ones who desperately need it the most.

Especially when the two worlds collide.

And that is what it feels like to Kate. Like she has just endured a high-speed collision with this ball of frenetic energy and come out on the losing end.

She's never felt happier in her life.

This singular thought – pure and unadulterated happiness – is weighing on her right now, as she watches Madison play with one of her friends. She gazes around, marveling at the beautiful park built inside the quadrangle of her apartment complex. Some serious cash has been spent on this play area, and no expense has been spared. The park is open to the sky, and surrounded on all four corners by the massive steel and glass that rises high, some forty stories upward.

There is almost a feeling of guilt hanging over her at this moment. Sheer happiness isn't something she is accustomed to feeling. And after all of these years, after all of his pursuits – it isn't Richard Castle who is the catalyst for her contentment. She stares at the swing set that she and her daughter – _her daughter_ – have just played on in the past few minutes, and her thoughts take her back to a different swing set of another time, with another person.

Castle.

Only now, new memories of swing sets are firmly implanting themselves in her mind. No, Castle isn't the sole catalyst for those thoughts anymore.

It is a young girl.

 _Her_ young girl.

Make no mistake, Kate has no illusions about this. No, she didn't give birth to this youngster. No, she didn't carry her for nine months. She didn't feel the morning sickness, or have the eye-raising cravings. She didn't experience the late night kicks in the stomach. She didn't endure hours of labor, and she didn't breastfeed this little girl. She didn't wake up for one single middle-of-the-night feeding, and hasn't put a single band-aid on a scraped knee or cut finger. She hasn't spent one second on her knees praying for this little girl to feel better, nor has she spent any time at the store, gleefully picking out new dresses or shoes or outfits or even a single toy for young Madison.

And yet, in every imaginable way – this little girl is hers.

Her eyes, her mouth, her nose, her hair, her mannerisms . . . everything about the girl screams that she came from her, is a part of her. And though she has no memories of this youngster, it is oh so clear that the young girl has many, many memories of her mother.

For a brief instant, she envies the Katherine Beckett of this timeline, an unexpected marriage to William Bracken be damned. Then it dawns on her once again.

This _is_ her timeline.

And she can choose – if she so desires – to keep it this way.

She frowns for a moment, considering her current plight. Having children is something she and Richard Castle haven't ever really seriously broached. Oh, he knows she would like children someday – they have casually conversed at least that much. But that's the key word. Casually. Never seriously. Never with any depth. It's certainly not something they have intentionally sat down and discussed. It's come up before. But it's never been something they've brought up.

It was never something _he_ brought up. Not for a serious conversation.

So yeah, she's always known that someday she would want children. A child. A daughter. Only now is she realizing how wonderful that reality can be.

She is thinking about Richard Castle as she watches Madison. She is thinking about their get-together tonight that will occur in about four and a half hours. She is wondering how that conversation is going to go. She is already trying to figure out how she can have her proverbial cake and eat it also. She's trying to figure out how she can keep both Richard Castle and Madison . . . Madison Bracken.

The thought of that last name sickens her until the bigger truth hits her.

She is actually considering staying in this timeline!

She wants to make this work. She wants her daughter. She wants motherhood. She wants it not just in general. She wants it with _this_ young girl. And she wants the man she loves.

"Mommy, look at me!" Madison cries, interrupting her thoughts, as she hangs upside down on a playground apparatus. An alarmed Kate rushes to her feet, a scream in her throat as the little girls legs let go, and she falls to the ground below. Before the scream can leave her lips, Madison is jumping up, giggling and clapping her hands.

"Put me back, Mommy! Put me back!" she cries happily, and Kate feels a thousand butterflies explode in her stomach.

"Okay, Princess," Kate tells the young girl, reaching down and picking her up, lifting her to the spider web of metal above the youngster. "Hang on tight," she tells her daughter.

"I am, Mommy," Madison replies, and immediately swings upward with her small arms, pulling herself up toward the top of the apparatus. Once there, she claps happily, staring with pride at her mother.

 _"She's strong,"_ Kate thinks to herself, immediately realizing that her experience with young children and gauging their strength is literally zero. She also briefly chides herself for already being a hovering parent, ready to jump at the slightest hint of something wrong.

Then again, isn't that what parents are supposed to do?

She doesn't know, this is all just too new and too sudden. And too wonderful.

She watches Madison at play, unaware of the smile that has reappeared on her own face. Yeah, she could get used to this. For a moment, she feels regret that she never made this a priority, but she quickly casts the thought aside. It's not as though she has been involved in any relationships that dared broach the prospects of procreation.

Except with Castle.

She finds herself giggling at her highly clinical and impersonal choice of words.

 _"See,"_ she tells herself. _"You can't even say the simple words 'have a baby'. Hmph . . . 'prospects of procreation',"_ she mocks.

Yeah, she never made this a priority.

Kate sits back down on the bench, and once again falls deep into thought as she watches her daughter playing, content in her own little world. Her mind is rushed with questions.

When is her birthday? Where was she born? What is her middle name? Who is her best friend? What is her favorite book? What is her favorite food? Where else does she like to go? Does she have a nickname yet? Do I call her Madison? Or maybe Mads. Or Maddie. Who tucks her in – Mommy or Daddy?"

Well, that last question, she decides, is easy. Probably Mommy – herself. Bracken is a career politician and is likely away from home a lot.

Then again, she walked in on the child and it looked like Cassandra was taking her out.

 _"Museum, I think she said,"_ Kate thinks to herself.

And Cassandra had her dressed beautifully. More, the bond she saw – very quickly – between nanny and daughter was quite profound. Their attraction and . . . dare she say it, love for one another was very noticeable. Perhaps it is Cassandra who tucks Madison in, sings her songs, reads her stories, soothes her after nightmares. Perhaps it is the older woman who looks under the bed and in the closet for monsters . . .

Just these simple thoughts turn into dramatic concerns, and Kate begins to steel herself against the prospects of doing anything to change this timeline.

She has a daughter!

Who is right in front of her, playing like a normal child. Playing like she, herself, used to play, all those decades ago before that monster took her mother away from her.

Only now, she is married to the monster.

And her mother is alive.

And she has a daughter!

Yeah, motherly instincts kick in immediately. Ask any mother who stares into the eyes of her newborn child. The love is instantaneous. It occurs in the twinkling of a pair of small eyes that stare back at you. It doesn't make sense, it defies logic. And it is completely unassailable. A newborn is only seconds old, and the mother will kill for this new creature in her hands, that stares up at her.

And that, Kate smiles in realization, is what she has been granted a little over forty minutes ago now, upstairs in her home. She smiles, tears in her eyes, as she realizes that the moment she saw young Madison, the moment the little girl stared up at her with her beautiful, large eyes – Kate was given her 'newborn' experience.

That moment a mother has, when she first holds her child – Kate has just experienced her version of that.

That moment a mother has, when she realizes that – from now on – she has a new title, and a new responsibility – Kate has just experienced that, too.

That moment a mother has, when she realizes that she has brought life – _life_ – into the world. Yeah, Kate has just experienced her own version of that.

She loves little Madison.

She will fight for her.

Madison performs a small, awkward flip, barely landing on her feet, but laughing loud and happily. She runs toward Kate, obviously bored with the playground and ready for the next activity on her schedule for the day . . . a schedule, of course, which is firmly planted in her little mind and totally unknown to Kate.

Kate finds the notion of unknown, unplanned activities with her daughter to be the best day possible. She offers her hand to the little girl, who grasps it quickly in her little hand.

"Where are we going now?" Kate asks her.

"To the toy store downtown, Mommy," she replies. "And then to the diner with all the stars on the wall. The one with the singers. And then store with all the shoes."

"That's my girl," Kate laughs, as they walk through the doors back into the apartment building, winding their way toward the front doors, leading out to the street, where Kate hails a cab, tightening her grip on the young girl who suddenly has become the most important person in the world to her.

Suddenly, she understands the Castle-Alexis dynamic, in a way that she never did before. Oh, she _thought_ she did. She thought she understood the feeling, the bond between the two. But less than an hour with Madison has showed her how woefully inadequate her thinking was.

"Now I know, Rick," she says aloud – knowingly – to herself as she and her daughter slide into the cab.

"Now I know."


	20. Chapter 20

**Kairos – Chapter 20**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine J

.

 ** _Sunday Evening – April 28, 2013, 6:07 p.m., At a small nightclub in Greenwich Village_**

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The music is intoxicating. It is slow and jazzy, with a just a subtle hint of the blues. More New Orleans than New York. But it certainly fits the mood of the couple sitting at the small table deep in the northeast corner of the small establishment here in the Village.

District Attorney Kate Beckett arrived some five minutes ago, after dropping young Madison off at their decidedly upscale apartment home with Cassandra. As much fun as Kate had with Madison, and as much fun as her daughter appeared to have with her mother, Kate couldn't help but notice the similar joy Madison shared when she returned home to her nanny. It's not that Kate is jealous. Well, okay, maybe a little. It's not that she begrudges the woman the child's affections. Okay, perhaps just a little here also. Clearly those affections toward Cassandra are well-earned.

It's just that she wonders how much time Kate Beckett has managed to spend away from her young daughter that would force such a bond to develop in the first place. Or hell, maybe that's just the natural progression of things between nannies and children. It's not like Kate has a lot of experience at the mothering side of things.

Meanwhile, highly successful novelist and screenwriter Richard Castle arrived a minute earlier, after leaving a note for his wife, Kyra, back at the loft telling her he would be out for a bit. He decides it's a romantic touch that he thinks is in line with how he – in any reality – would act. He knows that Kate loves the little notes that he leaves her . . . scratch that . . . _has left for her_ in their timeline. But in truth, leaving a note for Kyra was his only real option in this case, as he has no idea what Kyra's phone number is. His cell phone didn't magically pick up numbers from this timeline once he 'arrived' back in the present, into this new timeline. And since Kyra hasn't called or texted since she left . . . well, a note really was his only option.

Sitting across the small table from Kate, now he speculates that, had he thought more about it, he would have checked his emails on his desktop computer, searching for any and all messages from Kyra. Certainly he would have found some – at least one – email from his wife. And somewhere in her signature line, there probably would have been her phone number.

 _"Oh well, nothing I can do about it now,"_ he thinks to himself as he gazes at the woman across from him. It strikes him that she – like he, himself – is a thousand miles away right now, deep in her own thoughts.

He looks long and hard at Kate – and an odd, wet ball drops inside his stomach and rolls around there, playing dodge ball with his insides. There is something different about her. He can't put his finger on it, but she is . . . damn, it's almost as though she is happy to be here. Not 'here' with him. Here in this timeline. It's almost as if she is content with this reality that she has found herself in.

Her voice brings him mentally shuffling back to the present.

"So, let's compare notes," she suggests, her eyes finally focusing on him. Up to now, she's been drifting in and out, gazing at the musicians on the stage and the few patrons that are still starting to pour into the small club. It's still early, and the band has yet to officially start their initial set. So watching the musicians warm up with a few practice songs – that sound wonderful, by the way – turns out to be another good idea from her partner across the table.

"Good idea," he agrees. "I'll start. I'm married. Again."

"Me, too," she tells him without hesitation.

"Bracken?"

"Yeah," she replies.

There it is again. That look. One of contentment. She's married to Bracken, but doesn't seem to be the least bit broken up about it. What the hell . . .

"You?" she asks.

"Kyra."

Okay, at least that gets her attention.

Kate loves her daughter – this little girl she has known all of five-plus hours, and already she can't imagine leaving, or losing, little Madison.

But he's married to Kyra Blaine? It had to be _her_ of all people? Castle's lost love? Meredith she can deal with. But Kyra? The only woman that Kate – in moments of pure honesty – ever spent meaningful time worried about during the last year as she and Castle finally began to commit to one another. And that despite the fact that she's known the woman is married and unavailable.

Only here, she isn't married anymore. Well, scratch that – obviously she is. She's married to Castle.

"Happily married?" she asks, concern creeping into her voice, as this timeline suddenly has experienced a hiccup of its own.

"Oh, yeah, I would definitely say so," he tells her, images of the naked woman stepping out of the shower stall to greet him – and immediately he realizes he has answered that question far too quickly, and with far too much enthusiasm.

"Hey, she's not you, Kate," he tells her, trying to regain his footing. "No one is. It was just . . . it was just a surprise to see her there, that's all. I went there _hoping_ to be single, but _expecting_ to see Meredith. Seeing Kyra there naked and -"

"Naked?" Kate asks, both alarm and anger suddenly mixing into a lethal cocktail.

"She was like that when I arrived, Beckett," he offers, now getting a bit miffed himself. It's not like he stripped the woman naked. In fact, he did everything he could to escape her, including an impromptu impersonation of Joseph running from Potiphar's wife. And it seems his chivalry has been about as effective for him as it was the young Jewish man from long ago.

Suddenly, as quickly as the anger was upon her, Kate acquiesces, simply nodding her head at her companion. She knows she can't hold it against him. Not given the thoughts she herself is already having.

"Well, I have a surprise as well," she tells him, moving on, focusing her thoughts back on the little bundle of joy that is probably playing a game of hide-and-go-seek with Cassandra by now. Once again Kate smiles weakly, as she realizes how much she envies the nanny right now. And how much she wants to see the little girl . . . _her_ little girl . . . again. And soon.

"What is it?" He asks, his concerns now mounting as well.

"I'm a mom."

He stares at her for a few seconds, his mouth opening slightly, the opening growing by the second as he processes what he has just heard, and tries to push his own words out. Words that have trouble forming, much less finding their way.

"Wow," he finally manages to say.

"Yeah," she agrees. "She's beautiful."

"A daughter," he says, his voice weakening.

Now he knows what that look was on her face. It was the look of a mother's love. A _new_ mother's love, at that. A mother who has just brought home that newborn. He knows that expression, first-hand. Meredith had it once. It appears that in this reality, it's a feeling that never managed to leave the aspiring actress . . . unlike his own Meredith from his timeline.

He finds himself now mixing timelines, growing increasingly unable to easily distinguish between them. Sure, he has his own memories, and they haven't changed. But his memories are not in concert with the reality that now stares at him square in the face, and his brain is trying desperately to make sense of all of this. His mind is trying – somewhat successfully, somewhat unsuccessfully – to merge the two worlds together.

Looking at Kate, and just thinking about how she must be feeling as a new mother, he suspects that the prospects of a return trip to the Kronologix facility to try and fix all of this – to get him out of Kyra's bed, to get her out of Bracken's bed, to bring Alexis back home, to bring Javier and Kevin back to life – those prospects just took a serious, steep nosedive. And knowing how he feels about his own daughter . . . he certainly isn't one to blame her.

"What's her name?" he asks. He knows this is important to her. And so it is important to him, despite all it might mean for them.

"Madison," she tells him.

"Beautiful name," he muses aloud.

"Be even more beautiful with your last name," she replies sadly, and he nods as well, smiling as much as he can muster.

They stare at each other solemnly for a few seconds before she looks away.

"Kate?" he asks, reaching across the table for her hands. This small club in Greenwich Village is clearly not their type of place. A much younger crowd hangs out here and it has their vibe, their atmosphere. It's dark, and the actual club itself is below the street surface. The lack of windows and dim lighting give the place almost a cave-like feel. It's why he picked this place, knowing the likelihood of them being discovered here is quite low. It's a place he had frequented in the days of his youth . . . out of college, for some of his early writing inspiration. The place is much as he remembered, only before it was a comedy club. A place for aspiring comics to hone their craft.

"Kate," he repeats, knowing that they are getting ready to have a very important and unplanned discussion . . . one that could easily determine their future. One that is long, long overdue, he now realizes too late.

"We've never really talked about children," he tells her. "Not seriously, I mean. I don't know if we have avoided it consciously or not. But it looks like now is the time to –"

"I already have a child, Castle," she tells him, interrupting his montage of words. "How do I give her up? Huh? Tell me that! How do I leave a young girl who is me, in every way," Kate tells him, almost pleading now, and she doesn't know why.

"She looks like me. Her eyes, her lips, her nose, her chin. Everything about her screams me!"

"Then she must be the most beautiful little girl in the world," he tells her, and it completely disarms her. He has a daughter of his own, who she knows is the world to him. And yet he tells her this.

She is quiet for a moment, allowing his hands access to hers, as their fingers intertwine.

"Rick," she begins, but he cuts her off.

"I have a son," he tells her. She notices though that there is no joy in his voice, there is no dancing light in his eyes as there is when he speaks of his own daughter.

"Meredith and I divorced ten years ago," he tells her, relating to her what he discovered online about one Richard Castle, novelist and screenwriter.

"She took the children. Both of them. Alexis and Peter. Alexis and I have . . . an arms-length relationship."

Kate looks unblinkingly at him, shaking her head. She sees the pain in his eyes as he speaks about his estranged daughter. He gave up his children? This doesn't sound like the man she knows, the man sitting across from her at all. He would allow his kids to go away? And be all right with it?

"Meredith was working her acting career, and – what a surprise – took the tryout chair a little too seriously with a couple of directors," Castle continues. "Turns out, though, that while she was doing what she needed to do to land certain roles, I was out having some extra-curricular activities of my own. That's when Kyra entered the picture, after a rough break-up with her husband."

"That doesn't sound like you, Castle," Kate disagrees, shaking her head. "You've been married twice, and loyal both times, despite –"

"Not in this timeline," he interrupts, sadly. "In this timeline, I'm no better than Meredith. And it appears I was more than willing to allow Meredith to move our children . . . _my_ children . . . Alexis . . . to the west coast so I could continue my career . . . and be with Kyra."

They are quiet for a moment before she speaks.

"Oh, Castle. I am so sorry," she tells him.

"So am I," he agrees, rubbing a hand through his hair in exasperation. He is fighting back tears now, as he considers the staggering costs that he is now paying for attempting to trifle with nature. The words of Dr. Sandra Windholm whisper mockingly in his ears now.

 _"If scientific history has taught us anything, it is this: Nature, or creation, has its own order. The more you mess with creation, the more you have to mess with creation. The more you mess with the natural order, the more you must continue to mess with the natural order."_

The words were so profound, so beautifully poetic that his visual memory captured them – word for word. The words are permanently emblazoned in his memory. And still he ignored them. He pushes these regrets away – for now – to focus on the present. He senses there will be plenty of time for regrets.

Years, he suspects.

"You know, it appears to me that you now have two reasons to want to keep things as they are," he tells her. He glances at the stage momentarily, then returns his gaze to her.

"Your mom and your daughter. And I, too, have two reasons to want to keep things the same. Only they are very far away from me. They barely know me now," he says, with tears forming in his eyes once again. She squeezes his hands tightly.

"Oh, and I've won two Emmys and an Oscar," he laughs bitterly. "But at least it appears that I have a good marriage going."

"Believe it or not, so do I," she tells him, and watches his jaw drop a second time in the past few minutes. Yeah, this is a lot to digest. For both of them.

"Everything I have read, everything I have seen in the apartment tells me that Bracken is a decent man in this timeline. He's raised monies the traditional way for all of his campaigns. He loves his wife. He loves his daughter. There's no evidence of any wrongdoing, and believe me, I looked. I know _where_ to look. Vulcan Simmons is behind bars. Has been for ten years."

"Dick Coonan is dead, killed behind bars," Castle tells her, and her heart leaps at the realization that – despite the sad news he has discovered for himself, he still has taken the time to research her world, her life.

"Roy Montgomery is Chief of Police," she tells him, and he nods his head knowingly.

"But Kevin and Javi are still gone," he tells her, and this time it is her turn to nod her head. She had found this out already also.

"Oh, and I'm District Attorney," she tells him. He nods, already having found this out also. They stare at each other for a few seconds before unreasonable laughter overtakes them. It's just a release. Stress, frustration, call it what you will. But the laughter is cathartic for both of them.

They order dinner. They grow quiet, listening to the soft jazz being played - on and off – over at the small, makeshift stage. Kate finds herself swaying with the music, lost in her thoughts as she nibbles on the pasta dish in front of her. She glances over at her companion. And her heart breaks.

The tears are dropping from his cheek like drops of rain. He is staring down at his meal – a similar pasta dish – only his fork dangles aimlessly from his fingertips. He is completely still, motionless, save the occasional sniffling that escapes.

"Castle," she barely whispers, her voice now breaking as well as her own tears – bravely held at bay up to this point – now come cascading downward.

He glances up at her with a humorless smile, juxtaposing itself against the onslaught of tears.

"We missed it, Kate," he tells her, his voice quivering.

"We missed what, Rick?" she asks. "Castle, what are you –"

"We missed our moment. Our season. The universe had granted us our own personal, extended Kairos moment. It plucked you off a ledge hanging by your fingertips and put you in my loft, giving us an opportunity to be together. A chance to be one. And we missed it."

"Castle, that's not –"

"We missed it chasing your mother's killers," he begins. "We missed it chasing murderers and adulterers and burglars. We missed it by never seriously talking about having a family of our own. We had our chance – the Greeks call it Kairos – those special moments, those special seasons. But you have to recognize them when the show themselves. And we didn't do that. That chance to have that serious conversation about children. That chance to put that diamond on your finger. That chance to put your mother's case away. That chance to fully integrate you into Alexis' life. All the chances we had . . . we just figured we had more time. More time. And all that time, those special moments passed us by."

She stares at him, tears falling freely down her face now. She's not sure if she agrees. But she thinks she does. She certainly understands. And it has taken this . . . all of this . . . to wake them up to the truth.

It takes another minute or so before he speaks.

"So . . ."

"So . . ." she repeats, and they laugh nervously.

"I think . . . I think we should probably . . . and I can't believe I am saying this," he begins. "But I think we need to go and sleep on this. The last thing we need to do is act rashly again."

"I think I agree, babe" she tells him. "Jumping into something hastily isn't the answer."

"But going home – at least for me – going home and jumping into bed with Kyra Blaine . . . Kyra _Castle_ ," he says with emphasis. "Well, that's not a great idea either, believe me. At least you know that Bracken isn't home."

"Oh . . . that," she counters slowly, and he can tell yet another shoe is ready to drop. "That's the text I got a half hour ago. He's on the train, headed home. Seems Congress was able to hammer out an agreement on the budget. The government will be funded, so everyone is on their way home now."

"Well, that's just lovely," he muses sarcastically.

They are quiet again for a moment before he throws his napkin on the table, effectively throwing in the towel.

"Don't give up, Castle," she tells him, pleads with him.

"So . . . we go home and sleep with our spouses –"

" _Sleep_ being the operative word, Rick," Kate tells him, squeezing his hand in encouragement.

"Yeah, sleep," he repeats. "And then what? How long are we going to be able to avoid their more amorous advances? How long do we keep this ruse up before they know something is very wrong in Kansas?"

"I . . . I don't know," she replies, honestly. He stares at her for a few seconds before pushing back from the table.

"Neither do I," he agrees, offering her his hand to help her stand. They walk together, out of the small dark club, walking up the stairs to the street surface.

"Better take separate cabs," he tells her.

"Why?" she asks. "We can share a cab again and drop either of us off while the –"

"Separate cabs allows us to do whatever we need to do – mentally, emotionally – to fall into the role we are expected to play," he tells her. "Playing mommy is going to be child's play for you. You're already there. Dealing with your husband . . . and my wife . . . well . . ."

She nods her head, staring at him as he hails a cab. All too quickly one pulls over toward them, and Castle opens the door for her.

"Anyway, I think I have a long night of internet research in front of me," he tells her. "Apparently, I have an interview with Katie King tomorrow night, and I need to bone up on exactly who I am and what I've written and what I'm all about," he tells her.

"Who is Katie King?" she asks.

"Think Katie Couric," he replies, having done some research on his meeting tomorrow, and finding that, no – his meeting isn't with Katie Couric, but with a Katie King, who is the premier interviewer of celebrities. Yet another change.

She stares at the open cab door, then at him. Then back to the door. It's almost comical how out of tune they are now.

"You first," he tells her, smiling with a confidence he definitely doesn't feel. She obliges, trying to smile back at him while sliding into the back seat. He leans down and kisses her lips gently. She wants more. He does also. But whether he or she want to admit it – everything is different now. Kids tend do that. So do spouses.

"By the way," he tells her as he taps the roof of cab indicating she's ready to go. "I always knew you would be a great mom, Beckett."

He watches her drive away, once again staring at her face that is turned, facing him through the rear window. He muses that it's a scene he is started to see a little too often as he turns and whistles, flagging down another cab to take him home.

To Kyra.

.

 **A/N:** A happy and wonderful Father's Day wish to all of the dad's out there.


	21. Chapter 21

**Kairos – Chapter 21**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Monday Morning – April 29, 2013, 2:39 a.m., Inside the Den at Richard Castle's Loft_**

.

Richard Castle sits at his desk – one of the few familiar things in this timeline – rubbing now very bleary and watering eyes, squinting at the large twenty-six inch monitor that sits atop his desk. He glances up in the corner of the screen, noting the time. It's well past two in the morning. His eyes are giving in, but his mind remains alert, focused entirely on what he has been reading for the past four to five hours.

It had been a nice dinner with Kyra. He has to admit to himself, it was far nicer than he could have imagined. Particularly given the fact that he is completely on his guard, fighting mightily to do nothing to encourage the woman.

 _The woman._

He finds himself feeling oh so guilty at considering Kyra – his wife of this timeline – as nothing more than 'the woman.' He finds himself – dammit – despite his best efforts, being drawn to her. She has been nothing short of loving, attentive and supportive . . . three qualities that – outside of his daughter – have been in short supply in his life - in any timeline.

He's been sitting here since roughly ten o'clock the evening before, doing multiple searches on the internet to find out more about himself – and his wife – in this timeline. He has been watching a multitude of interviews of himself, with multiple networks, multiple media outlets. There have been articles read and videos watched.

He can't say that he is all too pleased with what he is learning about himself.

This version of Richard Castle is . . . well, he's almost arrogant. He certainly does not lack self-confidence, and he speaks flowingly of himself very easily. His old jokes – in his timeline – about being ruggedly handsome aside, _that_ Richard Castle didn't take himself too seriously. This Richard Castle, however, does indeed believe his press clippings.

Sure, in his own timeline, he's never been one to really doubt himself, at least not professionally. Dozens of published works will do that. There is a public role that he has learned to play. But it is only a role. It isn't him. He's a good writer, yeah. He knows this.

Only this version of himself really, _really_ knows this. And embraces it. Revels in it. In watching the interviews, he has realized that this guy here – this Richard Castle – he isn't playing a role. This is who the man really is.

He doesn't want to be this man.

He's almost like a professional athlete in his mannerisms, in how he carries himself in public.

The basketball player who drains the three pointer, and then points toward the crowd, basking in and encouraging their praise? That's him.

The soccer star who heads the winning goal into the net, then sprints in jubilation to the nearest corner of the field, sliding on his knees, arms raised victorious as he encourages the praises of the fans? Yeah, that's him.

No, he doesn't like this version or Richard Castle, and he has found himself wondering how many people – secretly or openly – feel the same way. He has found himself wondering how in the world his wife puts up with him.

He is intent on changing this.

The Richard Castle that the public will see tomorrow night . . . make that later tonight, since it is already in the wee hours of Monday morning . . . the Richard Castle the public sees tonight will be a different man. He is adamant about recreating himself. He's going to do this for himself. For his daughter. And oddly enough, for the woman he knows is sleeping in the other room.

This thought frightens him terribly, as he has come to realize that he is considering staying in this timeline.

Whereas his initial thoughts – initially – had been of visiting Kronologix and once again resetting things back to normal . . . well, now he is of a different mindset.

Then again . . . what is normal anymore?

He suspects that Kate is also leaning in that direction. Well, if this is the life that the universe has chosen for him . . . _for them_ . . . well, he has to make the most of it, doesn't he?

He is a dad, here, just as he was in his timeline. He's a dad here, but not a good one. That's a tough cross to carry for the man staring at the screen. There is a young girl out there – hell, she's eighteen years old now. Not much of a girl. She's a young woman. A young woman who grew up without a father. Unacceptable!

And worse – there is a young boy – a boy like he was himself was – raised only by a working woman? Growing up without Richard Castle in his life, for the most part? Again, unacceptable. Especially for a man who knows – firsthand – what growing up without a father, with a single mom desperately trying to hold things together. Yeah, Richard Castle knows that life, and he is absolutely distraught as he wonders how he – how this version of Richard Castle – could willingly place another young boy into a similar fate.

But then he remembers the articles he has been reading.

Meredith remarried. A director, of course. Someone who could help her with her career. He can't begrudge her that. He wonders just how helpful and supportive Richard Castle was to Meredith in this timeline. Regardless, she has remarried. And by the looks of it, this marriage has stuck. For over ten years now. But this Richard Castle didn't know that when he left his children . . . when he let them leave. Meredith wasn't remarried. He had the opportunity to have them, and willingly decided against it. Fortunately, for both children, Meredith's new husband had a different set of priorities.

So, in reality, Alexis and Peter didn't grow up fatherless. There _was_ a father in the picture. It just wasn't him. The sheer possibility that Alexis has grown up calling another man 'Daddy' . . .

Again, completely unacceptable, and he finds himself grunting in frustration yet again. It's been a common reaction since he plopped down in the chair here.

So yeah, there is a re-set that is going to happen tonight, all right. A re-set of one Richard Castle. Because, over the course of the evening and these wee hours, he has begun to think less about 'my timeline' and 'our timeline' and 'the old timeline' or 'this new timeline.'

It's just his reality now. It is what it is, and he is beginning to accept that this is life now. And if this is his life, well, dammit, he's going to make it one he can feel comfortable living in.

He realizes he is repeating himself, his thoughts are jumbled together, in a non-ending circular cycle. Suddenly, a pair of soft arms are around his neck, and a pair of even softer lips brush against his cheek. He feels – and smells – her sweetness upon him.

"Rick," his wife whispers softly. "Come to bed. You need to sleep. You've got an early morning. And I can't sleep knowing you aren't in bed with me. You know this, baby."

He finds himself smiling, even against his best efforts. It turns out he was wrong about Kyra. She was no home-wrecker. She was divorced, moving on with her life, when he – while still married to Meredith – made overtures toward his old flame. Overtures which Kyra quickly – and quietly – rebuffed. She did it in private, without embarrassing him. From the articles, though, taken from interviews after the couple married, it seems that he chased and chased and chased until he finally caught her . . . a little over a year after he and Meredith divorced.

It sounds so painfully familiar to him. It appears no matter the timeline, he always seems to chase what doesn't desire him.

Only this time, he seems to have caught his treasure at the end of the rainbow, and it's been a happily-ever-after ending.

In the end, it took a mutually-initiated divorce – one that Meredith eagerly sought as much as Castle – to cause Kyra to give even modest consideration to a relationship with Castle. But still, it took over a year after that divorce for her to even agree to their first date.

 _"Another woman I chased and chased,"_ he had told himself upon learning about their history together.

Nevertheless, in so many ways, landing Kyra was good for Castle. He has settled down, and his writing has actually expanded in diversity. In other ways, however, it has only proven to reinforce a mantra within this timeline's author that he can have whoever he wants, whatever he wants, whenever he wants.

The woman of his dreams, Emmys, Oscars, fame and fortune.

And through it all, there is no evidence that he has even looked back at the notion of losing his children. One interview, in particular, brought tears to his eyes.

 _"Sure I miss my children,"_ he had told an interviewer during a sit-down only three years ago. _"But it's not like I never see them. Thank God for airplanes. And Amazon,"_ he had concluded, chuckling. It was a cavalier, almost callous response.

That's the Richard Castle of this timeline.

Yeah, he hates this man who he has become. The man who bears his name, but little else that he would want to keep for himself. Once again, he is now questioning his firm, previously-unshakeable belief that we are all who we are, no matter the circumstances. And that we are destined to find that one person. Now, he realizes that circumstances – and decisions – have created a Richard Castle he would never have recognized. And as the last two timeline visits have clearly taught, nothing is guaranteed. In fact, he's now been present in three timelines in his life, and in two of them, Kate is with Bracken.

And he is with Kyra.

So what in the hell is _that_ supposed to tell him . . .

And speaking of Kyra . . . the one shining light in all of this, however, appears to be Kyra Castle.

Thankfully, it appears that he has given up his playful, adulterous ways for this woman. And it appears, from a few other articles, that it is Kyra, not Castle himself, who ensures that the man stays somewhat close with his children.

"I'm so sorry," he tells the woman who has draped her arms around him, and snuggles into his neck.

"For what?" she asks inquisitively. She'd be an idiot not to see something different in her husband over the past day. Less than a day. Whatever. He's different somehow, and this has not been lost on her. He's different . . . in a very good way. Somehow he appears more . . . humble. More human. And, as he found out at dinner, she knows her husband very, very well.

She had asked him about his limp.

Yes, his hip is hurting, it's just a dull ache. But apparently it has caused a bit of a limp. She noticed it. She brought it up at dinner.

Funny that Kate has not.

Of course, he lied it off, telling her he has no idea why it is hurting. He told her that it began hurting last night, and he just didn't want to worry her. No way is he going to start talking about time travel and wild science fiction theories.

He could tell, even then, that she wasn't buying it.

"I'm sorry that I haven't been the best husband for you," he tells her, watching her expressive eyes grow in disbelief.

"I'm sorry that I haven't been the best dad for Alexis, for Peter," he continues, wondering if he has said too much, gone too far, as Kyra pulls away, staring intently at him. She gazes at his eyes, his cheeks, his shoulders, as if seeing him for the first time.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice low.

"I am making sure that this is really you," she tells him, and he can tell she isn't joking. There is no humor, no joking in her voice.

"It's like I am talking to a stranger," she continues, placing a hand on his face, his cheek, rubbing it softly. He can't help it –he closes his eyes into her touch. She slides her face towards his, placing a soft kiss on his lips, biting his lower lip lightly in the process.

"You kiss like my husband," she smiles demurely. "You taste like my husband." She shakes her head, and the smile leaves.

"But you're different somehow," she continues. "I can't put my finger on it. What happened today, Rick? Ever since you came home – when surprised me in the shower . . . you're different."

He chuckles to himself, shaking his head.

 _"Well, I can't tell you the truth. I can't tell you that I'm a time traveler who has usurped your husband's position, taken his place in your life,"_ he thinks to himself, staring at the beautiful woman in front of him, who he only now recognizes is wearing only a long t-shirt, which barely drops to her thighs.

"Can't we just say that maybe I am finally growing up, I guess?" he asks. "Can't a man grow up? Even at my age? Especially at my age?"

She stares at him for a few more seconds, hand still on his cheek, then glances down at the monitor. She sees the CNN article written about him last year that he is reading. Professionally, it is a wonderful article praising his talents.

Personally, it's not the most flattering piece. She glances at him, searching his eyes, and nods her head.

 _"Maybe,"_ she thinks to herself, trying to keep her hopes in check.

"I love you," she tells him. "So much."

He gazes into her eyes, and he fights the emotions that have broken out in war inside him. Her eyes always spoke to him. They sparkled, they glistened, they raged, they laughed. And they cried. And tonight, they are crying. He sees, in her eyes, hope. Hope that she doesn't want to feel, but cannot help but feel.

Hope that – evidently – he has taken away from her through the years.

He knows he shouldn't say those words – he doesn't feel them . . . does he? But this is his new timeline. No – scratch that. This may not be his timeline. Not yet.

But it _is hers_.

This is _her_ timeline . . . the only one she knows.

"I love you, too Kyra," he tells her, knowing she deserves this, knowing that as long as he is here, as long has he remains here – and that might be a long, long, time – she deserves this.

And maybe – just maybe – he does also.

She kisses his cheek, and starts to walk away.

"Please, don't be too long," she tells him. "You know I won't sleep."

"Ten minutes," he tells her. "I promise, no longer than that."

She smiles, and leaves the room, shutting the door softly. He shakes his head – his mind a rush of contradictions now. Kate, Kyra, Alexis . . . they swim noiselessly inside his mind, and the silence is deafening, forcing him to shake all three out of his thoughts.

He takes a deep breath, sighing. His face is peaceful . . . and then he frowns.

Javier.

Kevin.

Neither are here. Neither are alive. And this – _this_ – is definitely his fault. They didn't deserve this either. Nor do their widows.

Suddenly, as pangs of regret assault him yet again, he has another realization. And this one hurts.

He knows that Kate Beckett isn't stupid. If he realized the possibilities of changing the past, then Kate had to see it also. Because she's not stupid. She had to also realize that if they did all of this – ensuring that her mother stayed alive – the possibility existed that she wouldn't become a cop. The possibility existed that they wouldn't have met. The possibility existed that they would come back to realities where they were – happily – with other people.

Ripples. He knew it. But so did she. Hell, Kevin had talked to them about ripples, about consequences. Yet he pushed forward.

But, so did she.

He decided it was worth it. For her.

But so did she.

Yeah, she went forward with this too.

He did this because he just wanted her to be happy. That's been his focus for the past year. And the best gift he could ever give her would be to give her back her mother. That's always been what is most important to Kate. So he jumped at this chance.

"But I could have given her something more . . . something better . . . some _one_ better," he tells himself now.

Too late, he now realizes from her reactions and their discussion last night in the Village, that the one thing he could have given her, the absolute best gift that he could have given her was a child. A child of their own. At least the discussion of a child. He knows this now. It's so damn painfully obvious. And it's so damn painfully too late.

It seems her mindset, her paradigm was contagious after all. Instead of focusing on their future – a family they could have – he had become Kate, focused only her past, and the family she had lost.

But another nagging thought is on his mind now, also. It's a thought that had been swimming just below the surface, unseen by him to this point. He should have seen it – it's so obvious. Like the dorsal fin that breaks the surface, warning of danger below. Again, another warning he simply ignored.

He's thinking of one Dr. Sandra Windholm, and the whole concept of Kronologix. Until tonight . . . make that this morning, rather, he had considered the doctor visiting him at his book signing to be nothing more than she said . . . a fan wanting to meet an author. All of this other stuff – a coincidence.

This morning, however, he has begun to suspect . . . and his suspicions have morphed into firm realizations, that the doctor's visit was far from innocent. Far from benign. His internet search of Kronologix turned up . . .

Zero.

Nada.

Zilch.

Nothing. Not one damn article. Not a peep. It's like the company doesn't even exist. But it _does_ exist. He's _been_ there. He arrived back to the company facility when he and Kate Beckett returned to this timeline. He's met the doctor. He's seen the staff. He's participated in – experienced their technology. But according to the vast searches he has conducted – there is no Kronologix. The place doesn't exist. Oh, Dr. Windholm exists. And yes, she is a decorated and respected quantum physicist. It's just that there is no mention of Kronologix.

He is now questioning why she came . . . why she sought him out. And why she allowed him to go back in time. Why she allowed he and Kate to do this. Why she allowed this even after telling them that no one could make a trip unaccompanied. Why she allowed this without fulling vetting out their backgrounds, to ensure that she wasn't dealing with two people who would do . . . who would do exactly what they did.

Change a timeline. Intentionally.

His mind has been racing tonight, between the discouraging news he has discovered about himself, and the even more frightening discoveries he has made about the mythical phantom company run by Dr. Windholm. He is wondering if there ever were other investors. He is wondering if there ever was a pending IPO. Stanley would have fleshed this out, wouldn't he? Then again, if it is a private company, there really is nothing to declare publicly.

Then again, if it is a private company, it still has to incorporate somewhere. There has to be _some_ record of its existence.

 _"Why, Dr. Windholm?"_ he asks himself yet again this morning. _"Why did you allow this? Why did you do this? What am I not seeing?"_

Glancing at the time in the upper corner, he grunts again, and closes the monitor down, throwing the room into darkness. He's learned enough, he's learned far too much. And he has nothing but more questions.

For now, he just needs to recharge, relax, re-set . . .

He stands, stretching tired muscles, and is startled by the jolt of pain in his hip.

"Dammit," he thinks to himself, "another cost I didn't consider."

He walks – sadly, tiredly, to his bedroom, and the woman waiting for him there.


	22. Chapter 22

**Kairos – Chapter 22**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Monday Morning – April 29, 2013, 2:47 a.m., At Kate Beckett and William Bracken's Home in NYC_**

.

There is a light rain falling outside, and she marvels at the view of the falling rain from thirty-nine odd floors high, into the sky. This is yet another new thing for her to experience, and one she knows that most people have never even imagined. She pulls herself out of bed, extracting herself from the tiny arms and legs that have entwined themselves with hers, smiling at the little form beneath her.

She walks to the windows, listening to the rain that pelts the glass, marveling again at the sight of rain falling beneath her. She watches the streaks of rain fly downward until they are out of sight, well below her line of vision and rushing to the ground below. She turns – content – and heads back toward the bed where little Madison hasn't even stirred.

She hears him open the door – rather, she hears the security chime as the door opens downstairs as she settles back into bed, pulling the covers up over herself and the young child. Immediately young Madison's arms find her, seeking her warmth and comfort.

Kate knows the trains were running late – and he had called when he arrived at the Philadelphia station on 30th Street, letting her know that the trains were stopped in Philly, where he had transferred. He had informed her that he'd be home when the trains started running again.

She is upstairs in . . . in _their_ master bedroom. Pictures of a very happy couple, and their child, surround her in the bedroom. They are on the nightstands, on the walls, on the dresser. Everywhere she looks, she is all but attacked by images of a happy home, a happy family.

It had initially been a surprise to her to discover that this high rise apartment was actually two floors, with a spiral staircase leading up to the single bedroom up top. Downstairs, there are two other bedrooms. One is a guest room, while the other is occupied by Cassandra, who she now understands is a live-in nanny and housekeeper.

And a damn good woman on top of that.

The small figure rustles next to her, attempting to snuggle even closer if it were possible, and Kate smiles broadly. She has had little Madison in bed with her since they both retired for the night. Having the young girl in bed with her is a comforting arrangement for two reasons:

First – well, hey, she just wants to sleep with her daughter this first night. This is all new for her – being a mom, having a little child – a daughter. To be able to seek her out, hold her hand, hug her, and give her repeated good night kisses. It's almost too much, this emotional assault, even though every bit of it brings pure happiness. She doesn't want to let the little girl out of her sight – even in sleep. She found herself thinking about the little one even during her time with Castle tonight. Yeah, Madison is already a fixture in her head . . . and her heart. It scares her how quickly that occurred.

Second – well, come on, let's be honest. She doesn't want to be in bed alone with William Bracken any more than she wants to be with a serial killer. No matter their relationship in this timeline, no matter that he appears to be a good and honest man, she is not ready to deal with that. She doesn't want to have anything to do with the man in an intimate environment.

That type of intimacy is reserved for Richard Castle only.

So why in the hell does she feel . . . almost comforted when she hears him approaching? She shakes her head, as if trying to expel unwanted thoughts and feelings.

The Senator is quiet, being very considerate of his wife as he walks through the house, knowing that she and his daughter are asleep. However, he is not expecting what he sees when he walks into the bedroom, and smiles broadly. Seeing Madison in their bed is not a common occurrence. Kate usually wants him for herself in their bedroom. In fact, Cassandra – who is staying downstairs in her bedroom in their two-story loft where they take up the top two floors – is usually Madison's sleep mate when Madison doesn't want to be alone. So seeing Madison in their bed brings a smile of joyful surprise to the Senator. He immediately wonders if something is wrong.

"Hey, are you okay babe?" he whispers, not wanting to wake their daughter.

"I'm good," she replies. "How did it go? I mean, obviously everyone came to an agreement, but –"

"Typical stuff," he says dismissively. "Agendas within agendas, and not enough of us focused on the bigger picture."

He takes his shirt off, and hangs it on the large bedpost at the foot of the bed. He offers a smirk to Kate – an inside joke she is not privy to, and takes off his T-shirt, and grabs the white button-down shirt off the bedpost. He quickly, but silently walks to the laundry chute on the wall, and tosses both shirts in. He stands at the chute, quickly discarding his shoes, then his pants and socks. He tosses all but the shoes and his belt down the chute. He bends and picks up his shoes.

"Nice to see Madison there," he tells her as he walks back toward the closet, and places his shoes on a shelf there. He then makes his way to their master bathroom, where he immediately turns the shower on. It's been a long day for the Senator.

She watches him with a detached curiosity, and his words unintentionally hurt, because they immediately let Kate know that this is a not a common thing. Madison in bed with her parents isn't something that happens often enough. She winces at herself, yet again wondering what kind of person she has become in this timeline. It once again is forcing her to take a new, elongated look at herself in her original timeline – the Kate Beckett she knew, the Kate Beckett that Richard Castle knew.

She's not too happy with this backward glance.

But all of that is in the past. Tonight, with young Madison under her arm, she has already been fighting the war in her mind over her future. It's a war of extreme casualties.

One on hand, she has her mother back. Johanna is alive and well. That, and she has a daughter. And a sister. If the cost the universe has exacted from her for these gifts is taking Castle out of her bed and putting Bracken there . . . well, it's a lousy exchange . . . right?

Then again, Castle is here. In this timeline. He's not in her bed, but he _is_ here. He, like she, is married to someone else. But he's here. So there is still a chance . . . he's married to someone else, but come on, let's face it. He's been married twice before. She's long ago moved past Richard Castle's previous marriages.

Then again, he's not in a 'previous marriage' right now. He's currently married. And so is she.

She frowns, as she listens to her husband – and no, she's not going to get used to that – enter the shower and close the door behind him. She hears him . . . singing or humming something, and immediately glances down at Madison. The young girl doesn't even stir.

She's still trying to figure out how to have it all. Her mother, her daughter, her sister, Castle. The order in which she rattles those off mentally is lost on her. Regardless, she is slowly coming to the conclusion that maybe . . . just maybe, having it all might not be a possibility.

 _"Shut up,"_ she tells the universe that whispers to her, almost mockingly. _"It's only been one day. I can figure this out."_

But then she finds herself – again – thinking about Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan. And their widows. Clearly the right side of the ledger is outweighing the left. It's not even close. Losing Castle, gaining Bracken, losing Kevin and Javier, and another thousand . . . or was it twelve hundred or so souls killed on the right side of the ledger, while her mother, sister and Madison sit on the left. Those scales are tipped so clearly.

Even she isn't this selfish.

Is she?

At least the one piece of good news is that the very tired Senator – after a weekend of arguing with his colleagues on Capitol Hill, and after a long night of train delays that lasted into the wee hours of this morning – well, he's of a singular mind now, and that is getting some shut-eye, and nothing else. He exits the stall after the quickest non-military shower on record, has dried off in similar record time and has thrown a pair of pajama pants on. He comes to the bed, bare-chested and quickly sits on his side of the bed, running his hands across a very tired face.

He doesn't make a move towards moving the little girl out of bed, or moving he and Kate to a different room for . . . activities. She silently thanks the heavens that she doesn't have to fight that particular battle this evening . . . morning . . . whatever.

She glances at the clock, and then at the man who is falling backwards into their bed.

"It's good to have you home," she tells him, and she immediately stifles a gasp of surprise. Why did she say that?

She frightens herself now, wondering if she – if her brain – if her unconscious thought – is slowly acclimating itself to this timeline. She wonders – not for the first time tonight – if the longer she lives in this reality, the more her brain forces this to _become her reality_. She wonders, her hands now tightened into shaking fists, if the universe is going to slowly burn Richard Castle, and her other life out of her consciousness. And just as concerning, she wonders if the universe is doing the same thing with Richard Castle back at his loft . . . with Kyra.

"It's good to be home, babe. Hey, are you okay over there," he asks her, as he lies in the bed, slowly closing his eyes, on the other side of Madison. He can feel his wife shaking.

"Just a lot on my mind," she tells him – and it's only a white lie. Hell, it's no lie at all. There is a lot on her mind. She just can't tell him what it is.

"Well, it's good to be back home," he repeats. "I wasn't counting on being back for another few days, so this is nice." His voice is . . . lower than she remembers. It sort of rumbles like thunder. It's a kind voice, not the scheming voice she has grown used to.

"Me, either," she tells him. "And Madison will be happy to wake up with her daddy."

Once again, as the words leave her lips, she catches herself yet again. These are words she shouldn't be speaking. She hates this man.

Doesn't she?

He is her sworn enemy, the man she would do almost anything to see hurt, to see damaged, to see put away.

Isn't he?

Once again, her brain rails against her senses, contradicting what she has long held to be true. Her mother is alive, so he didn't have her killed. Her father is alive and well, and she has a sister. He seems – by all evidence – to be a decent man, a straight-forward politician looking to do some good. She has learned – from the internet – that he is the presumed front runner for his party's presidential nomination that is only three years away.

And he seems to be a family man, on top of everything else.

But she hates this man, doesn't she?

Yet somehow – somewhere in time – this man put a ring on her finger. And she accepted.

She wonders – not for the first time – why Richard Castle has yet to put a ring on her finger. And honestly wonders what her reaction would have been had he tried. He's worked with her for going on five years, and wooed her seriously for two of those years. Last spring – almost a full year ago – she finally stopped running, throwing herself into his arms, into his bed, begging for forgiveness. And yet, the last year hasn't brought on any kind of commitment from Castle. No talk of marriage, or anything serious. In fact, until last week when he refused to leave her while she stood on a ticking time bomb, she wondered whether or not he was just in this for the fun of it. She had wondered whether – now that the chase was over – whether or not the thrill for him was gone as well.

She closes her eyes, tightening them, her mind a jumbled mess now. She holds onto Madison all the more tightly, using the young girl as support.

"God, please help me," she whispers to herself, hoping her husband doesn't hear her silent prayer. Even this action stuns her. It is so unlike her. She doesn't pray often. Hell, she doesn't pray _ever_. She's seen too much in her lifetime, and it has hardened her. But now? After the past two days. After what she has been through? Yeah, prayer is definitely an option now. And it seems to be an option that this Kate Beckett is comfortable with.

But _she is_ Kate.

Isn't she?

She feels his arm – her husband's arm – reach over their daughter, and alight on her shoulder. And somehow, dammit, she finds comfort in his touch, which instantly opens her eyes in alarm. Not that he has reached over to her – but that she accepts it so readily.

Within minutes, a grateful Kate Beckett finds the slumber she so desperately seeks, now questioning many things . . . not the least of which is simply this:

Who is Kate Beckett?

.

 **A/N:** The sub-conscious mind is an interesting thing. It operates much faster than our conscious thought process, and everything we have ever experienced since birth – what we eat, what we see, what we smell, what we taste, what we feel – all of that is stored in our subconscious. So what happens when what is stored in our subconscious is suddenly confronted with a reality that screams in opposition to what is stored there? To be honest, I don't know the answer to that. I'm not an expert in subconscious thought. But it is interesting to consider the position that both Rick and Kate have been thrown into.

I didn't want this to be a time-travel story where the two travelers, our protagonists, where thrown into a new timeline and they magically assimilated into it – having all of the memories of the new timeline. I wanted them to keep their own memories and personalities, and have that subconscious battle ensue.

It will be interesting to see how all of you – my readers, if you will – will or will not accept this. I suspect some will be okay with Rick's subconscious attempt to assimilate with Kyra, while others will absolutely not accept Kate doing the same – and vice versa. And perhaps some will reject BOTH for their subconscious attempts.

Either way – thanks for staying with the story.


	23. Chapter 23

**Kairos – Chapter 23**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Monday Morning – April 29, 2013, 9:45 a.m., On an airline flight bound for Los Angeles_**

.

"I have maybe another couple of minutes before they shut the door," Castle tells Kate, as he leans back into the large, first-class seat.

He glances around briefly, and all of the passengers seem to have boarded the plane. He hasn't noticed anyone new getting on in the past minute or two, and another quick glance at his watch tells him they should be pushing back soon.

For her part, Kate has extracted herself from her family this morning, leaving their home and coming around the corner to the small deli to pick up some bagels and croissants for breakfast. At least that was the reason she had given Bracken and Madison. In reality, she had called Castle as soon as she got here, knowing what time his flight leaves for Los Angeles.

"Okay, babe," she tells him. "It's so weird putting you on a plane . . . like this," she tells him hesitantly.

"Don't I know it," he replies in agreement. It is a weird, surreal moment for both of them. In some ways, they are used to sneaking around. But not like this.

She isn't happily married in her mind. Not to _that_ man, daughter or not. So why does the fact that she has left her home under false pretenses to make this phone call make her feel like she is . . . cheating on him somehow. And it appears that Castle is of the same mindset.

"I love you," he tells her. "So why does it feel like I am betraying someone simply by having this phone call? Why does this feel . . . damn, Beckett, it almost feels . . ."

"Wrong," she finishes for him. "I know what you mean, and I don't know why. I don't –"

"It's because you're married," he tells her. "Happily, whether you accept it or not. And I am in the exact same boat as you – happily married whether I feel it or not."

"Something to drink before we take off, Mr. Castle?" a perky and overly-attentive flight attendant asks him, interrupting his phone call.

"Water, please," he replies, smiling his best and brightest smile. It's not his usual smile. He feels it. It's an entirely fake smile, with no intent or warmth behind it. It's not him and it scares him. It scares him that he might be becoming someone he isn't.

He allows his head to fall back into the headrest in his seat, alongside the small window. He hears Kate talking in his blue-tooth earpiece.

"Why didn't Kyra come with you?" she wonders aloud to him.

"Well," he begins, "apparently she is my wife and my business manager. She's lining up a few other media sessions for me, for later this week out here on the east coast."

"She sounds charming," Kate tells him, and despite her best efforts, she is unable to keep that little green element out of her voice.

"She's actually been quite . . . she's been a tremendous help," he decides, quickly changing the words he was going to use. "I suppose that the Senator has been of similar help?"

Yeah, that puts her on the defensive a bit. Although that was not his intention. He is just pointing out what appears to be obvious now, at least to him. Unconsciously, subconsciously, call it what you will, but they are – without realizing it – easing into this timeline. Something neither did, something neither wanted to do after their first trip back into the past.

And it's only been a couple of days! How will things be in a week? In a month?

"Besides," he continues, "it also appears that Kyra doesn't like to fly all that much. Which is why – most of the time – it seems she sets things up for me here in New York. So she can be with me for these events without getting on a plane."

Kate has to stifle a laugh – it's just nervous laughter as she struggles with what she is hearing . . . much as she struggled with what she was feeling and saying last night to a certain Senator when he arrived home.

"So why do you have to leave this time?" Kate asks. "If she sets up most of your meetings here in the –"

"It's Katie King, and apparently she is somewhat big-time, and has her own weekly show, her own set out in California in his timeline," he replies, and immediately regrets his words, as the head of the gentleman next to him quickly whips in his direction at the words _"in this timeline."_ Castle plays it off, putting a finger to his lips and smiling while shaking his head and then pointing to his phone. The ruse works, as the man quickly smiles and nods his head appreciatively.

For his part, Castle is alarmed that his own response came so quickly, so easily. Without even thinking about it.

Regardless, it is actually a good thing that Kyra is staying her in New York. Kyra not being there on the plane next to him allows him to speak freely with Kate. And just thinking such a thought brings another pang of guilt that he doesn't understand.

"By the way, it seems you aren't the only one flying out today," she tells him. "Bracken has been called back to D.C., for some 'executive meeting' that he's being pretty mum about."

"What do you think it's about?" he asks.

"I don't know," she replies, subconsciously looking around the deli to see if anyone is paying attention to her.

"Well, if you're a U.S. Senator and there is an executive meeting, there's only one executive I can think of that can summon a Senator," Castle muses aloud.

"I was thinking the same thing," Kate agrees, taking a sip of a cup of coffee that somehow doesn't taste the same anymore. And I'm not sure if that's how he is in this timeline, holding secrets and all," she tells him, "but I kind of doubt it."

They are both quiet for a moment, and she wonders if she has just said something wrong – although she can't figure out what it could be. Castle answers that question.

"You know," he begins, "I'm starting to get tired of using and hearing the phrase 'in this timeline'," he whispers while turning his face toward the window, not wanting to draw the attention of the man next to him again.

"It's confusing, it's depressing. And to be honest, Kate . . . like it or not, this may be life for the foreseeable future."

"I know," she agrees, sadness in her voice. "I've been thinking the same thing."

They don't know what this means, long-term. Sure, they could always go back to Kronologix . . . but three times in as many days? For what purpose? How would they explain it?

But the more frightening aspect – that both realize – is that neither has made a real effort, a serious overture of sorts to even suggest a return to the facility yet.

The flight attendant interrupts his thoughts.

"Time to shut your phone down, Mr. Castle," she tells him, as she brings his water to him. Only now does he notice that the plane is backing away from the gate.

.

 ** _Monday Evening – April 29, 2013, 7:00 p.m., at an elaborate studio set in Los Angeles_**

.

The studio audience is small, and respectful. He wasn't sure what to expect, given that he wasn't expecting an audience of any type with Katie King. He figured this was going to be one of her classic one-on-one interviews that he researched into the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes King has an audience in the studio while other times – most times in fact – she does not. For this event, however, the star reporter and media correspondent has opted for a small audience – given the notoriety of her guest.

He finds himself relaxed . . . refreshed – and with the bright lights, the audience, and sitting in the hot seat, so to speak – he finds it oddly comforting. It's familiar territory for the writer, and for the first time in the past few days since all of this time-travel nonsense began, he feels 'at home' in more natural surroundings.

And yes, 'nonsense' is how he has grown to consider the past few days. Both his mother and his daughter – his real mother and daughter, as he calls them – both warned him against chasing aimlessly after Kate Beckett, acting rashly, doing anything and everything to further endear himself to the woman.

His thoughts go back to his decision – almost five years ago – asking Javier Esposito to give him access to Johanna Beckett's murder file. Rash.

His thoughts take him back to telling Kate he's dropped her case, yet he goes home to his own, high-tech murder board he has set up. Rash.

His thoughts take him back to the Dick Coonan case, where he thoughtfully . . . or should he say thoughtlessly offered Kate Beckett a hundred thousand dollars to help advance the case. Rash.

And now, despite warnings from Esposito, Kevin Ryan, hesitancy from Kate, and a reconstructive biology lesson that would have scared off any rational human being . . . he had jumped into this.

Yeah, rash.

He has decided he should have listened. Listened to that inner voice in his head that – each time over the past five years – was screaming to him to wait, to hold on, to think things through.

Oh, he doesn't regret falling in love with the detective . . . who is now the District Attorney. He doesn't regret chasing her, wooing her, courting her. But it should have stopped there. Why did he have to keep pushing, keep searching for a way to . . . to . . . hell, he doesn't even know what he was trying to do, anymore.

All of that is out of mind, however, for the next hour, as Castle is back in his element, enjoying himself on _Katie Live!_ for the evening.

He had arrived here in Los Angeles just after three-thirty in the afternoon, after a layover in Dallas, and immediately went to his hotel and took a short one hour nap. It had to be quick, since he originally thought the interview was at eight. In reality, it is at seven in order to be broadcast live on the east coast. He awakened surprisingly refreshed, had a bite to eat in the hotel lobby, and gathered his thoughts. The Richard Castle of this timeline has his own persona. That man has his own carefully crafted and well-deserved reputation . . . one that Castle aims to displace, and replace with one more to his own suiting.

Since his arrival at the studio, he has been everything Katie King has not expected. He's been attentive, sure. He's been suave, of course. But something else. She finds him to be nothing like his reputation, certainly nothing that she anticipated.

He's charming, yeah, as she has heard. But in a real, honest way.

He's funny, yeah, as she has heard. But not in the biting, jackass, sarcastic way she also has been warned about. He's warm, he's witty, and he's captivating.

"So, tell me about your family, Richard," she asks, now half-way through the interview, clearly enjoying herself. She tosses her long blonde hair to the side – something of a signature move on her part, he learned, designed to reel a guest – usually a male guest – in for the kill. Of course, since he knows nothing of Katie King other than what he learned early this morning, and his heart is somewhere else, her pseudo flirtations that usually disarm a guest are having no effect on him.

That is not lost on his host, either.

"Katie, please, my friends call me Rick," he reminds her.

"Are we friends now?" she asks, winking at the audience.

"After a seven and a half hour flight, I sure hope so," he laughs out loud, once again putting the reporter at ease.

"I have a wife, who is absolutely fantastic," he begins, knowing he is being truthful, yet also knowing the pain his words will likely cause his time-traveling companion.

He's already warned Kate Beckett that he would be saying some very personal, almost intimate things about his wife. He isn't doing this just to play a role. He's doing this because he knows Kyra deserves it. He's doing this because he suspects this is the sort of thing that Richard Castle _doesn't_ do for his wife here. At least not in public, and certainly not when cameras are rolling.

He can tell, from all he has discovered, that she has made him a better person, trying hard to give him a moral compass in their marriage. For the most part, she's been successful. He hasn't screwed around, he's been a good husband, dutiful in all ways, and romantic as hell. But still a narcissist at heart.

 _"Anyway, not everything is about you, Kate,"_ he thinks to himself, and he pauses, inadvertently, when he realizes the thought that he has just had. Less than a week ago, he likely would never have dreamed such a thought.

Thankfully, the pause is only a second or two, not long enough for anyone to draw any conclusions.

"She's a wonderful woman, Kyra," he continues, "and somehow she manages to be both my wife and my business manager . . . and let me tell you, Katie, either of those roles would tax a mere mortal."

The laughter from the audience – and the host – are sincere, as they are surprised again by his pointed humility and lack of ego, clearly not the man they all had expected to show up.

"But somehow, she manages to do both, and do both in the most exquisite manner," he tells the host. "And then there are Alexis, my daughter, and Peter, my son. Unfortunately, neither are living with me. I consider that to be the greatest, most horrific mistake of my life."

The statement surprises his host, who now places the notepad in her hand on the table next to her. It seems that the pre-designed questions are going out the window now.

"Care to explain, Rick?" she asks, now leaning forward. His divorce, the custody – none of that is news to Katie King or her audience. It's all a part of the Richard Castle legend. But it is also a legend that he has never – ever – even insinuated he was dissatisfied with.

"My first marriage ended in divorce, as you know," he replies. "Neither of us were . . . well, let's just say it was both of our faults, as it often is. Perhaps Meredith and I were too young, or too selfish. I don't know. We were too _something_. But I let it spill over into the kids. We split, and I let her take them, without much effort. I should have fought for them – I should have fought hard. For that, I will always be disappointed with myself. And I say disappointed, Katie, because the real word in my mind isn't one that your network would be willing to air, trust me."

"So tell me about your children," she continues, pressing the issue. She had hoped for something juicy to come from this, but it is rare for celebrities to give away personal information unless it dramatically benefits them – unless it makes them look better. But there is nothing that Richard Castle is saying that can be even remotely construed as positive toward the writer. He's all but said he abandoned his kids.

"They are great kids, great people," he tells her. "And they like their privacy, so I will grant them that. But let me just say, I should have fought harder for them, fought to keep custody of them. I have so much in my home back in New York, but the only thing there of any importance is Kyra. And that's too bad, because I could have had so much more. Little feet growing up in the home, little dreams growing up in the home. I missed all of that. And they missed it with me, because I was too stupid, and too selfish, focused only on my career. If there was one thing I could go back and do all over again, it would be those three or four months when Meredith and I split, and I just let them go with her. I have all of these awards, all of these accolades, and they mean nothing. Nothing at all."

"I wouldn't call an Oscar and two Emmys 'nothing'", King interrupts.

"They are statues, Katie," he tells her, drawing an appraising eyebrow raise. "Nothing more. They shine, but that's about it. They don't make up for not having Alexis and Peter. They don't ask for help with the homework, or play laser-tag, or tear up the kitchen, or have recitals, or sporting events, or ask to be tucked into bed."

"Wow," his host replies, not sure where to take this now. Fortunately, he has enough to say that doesn't need further prodding on her part.

"For a long time, I was a real bad boy in the city, and I have to tell you that the media ate it up," he tells her. "It helped my image, it helped create the playboy persona of Richard Castle – and my publishing company loved it because it helps sell books. That's how it was – that's how _I_ was. Until Kyra. Kyra changed all of that. But I've still been a horrible father. I don't see my kids nearly enough. Sure, I send them gifts, but hey, it's easy to buy presents. It's much harder to give your time, your love – and that's what they really needed. Fortunately Meredith remarried, and Jeff is a good man. He's taken on . . . he's taken on the responsibility I laid aside."

Katie King is completely and pleasantly stunned now. It's difficult to get celebrities to be this transparent, and again, when they do it is typically for their own self-serving purposes. But there is something ringing true about this conversation. She realizes instinctively that the novelist is being honest – as if this is something that he long has wanted to get off his chest. Perhaps that is why his wife, Kyra, was so eager to take this interview when Katie asked. Truth be told, she thought she'd have to do a little more begging to get one of the world's top authors in the chair across from her. In the end, it hadn't been that difficult at all.

"I've been lucky," he tells her, continuing.

"How so?" she asks. It's come to this. The great and fearsome Katie King isn't really asking anything scripted. He's reduced her to two and three word questions, which are simply follow-ups to what he is already saying. There is incessant chirping in her ear from her producer, wanting more elaborate questions, making suggestions. She reaches up and takes the piece out of her ear. No, she's running with this au natural, so to speak.

"I'm lucky in that they – my kids – they haven't completely bailed on me yet. They could have. Maybe they should have. But they haven't . . . and for that, I am eternally grateful. That's why I won't be writing any more mysteries and thrillers for a while. For a long while."

Her heart all but stops, as Katie King gives her head a subtle shake, as if to make sure she has heard this correctly. He's dropping a bomb like that . . . on her show? On live television.

The audience has heard the same thing, as audible gasps and cries of 'No!' are heard around the studio. He smiles softly, not basking – but simply acknowledging their reaction.

"When you say you won't be writing anymore for a while, what exactly do you mean, Rick?" Katie asks, wanting, needing this clarification. "Do you mean books, or do you mean screenplays? Surely you aren't just dropping everything . . ."

She allows the question to hang out there, waiting for a response. He is smiling at her now, a genuine smile.

"That's exactly what it means," he replies, still smiling. "If I want a relationship with my kids, I need to make some sacrifices. Isn't that what every good parent does? Sacrifice something they want, because there is something else they want more? More time with their children. _Better_ time with their children."

"But –" Katie begins, but he holds a hand up, gently, to interrupt her.

"I'm still writing, don't get me wrong," he tells her. "But my writing will be for them. For my kids. And others like them. I said no more mysteries and thrillers. I'm still writing - just not the grownup variety that I've done in the past, where I am writing a book and a couple of screenplays each year. That's too much. There will always be a screenplay opportunity waiting. And if not, so be it. But Peter is growing up, and I've missed enough time. Alexis is at a crossroad period in her life, and I need to be there for her. And I know that I can't just insert myself, and toss Meredith and Jeff aside – not after all they have done. So Kyra and I simply want to expand the village in their lives. And this is a way for me to give back to them."

"So," Katie begins, now picking up her notebook and writing notes down furiously. She's already thinking of tweets she will be sending out at the next break – a break she desperately wants to call for now, but she is afraid of turning off the faucet that is giving her such wonderful information.

"So, exactly what kind of books are you going to be writing now?" she asks.

He smiles again, and it disarms her. He can already see the expression on her face when he tells her. When he made this decision last night, he did a lengthy internet search – searching the Amazon site, the Barnes and Noble site, the iBooks site. He entered everything he could think of about the Potter books, and found nothing on the titles. The author, however, is here in this timeline, and she is still in the midst of a famously-received teenage vampire series.

But the Potter books? They've never been written in this timeline.

Well, he's read all of them – numerous times – and his writer's brain immediately kicked in, outlining the first two books he would write.

"I've already started a new series – this is going to be a children's series, or at least one for teenagers," he begins. "It's about a young teenage boy who discovers he is a wizard, and is sent off to a special school to hone his newly-discovered talents. I won't say much more, but let's just say he will have the adventure . . . adventures, plural, of a lifetime. And all children, but particularly children who have been sent away . . . away from one parent or both parents . . . they will relate to this. It will give them someplace to escape."

The excitement in his eyes, in his voice, is contagious, and he can tell the hook has been set. Now to reel them in.

"I've got the first two books outlined already," he continues. "And I will be dedicating them to Alexis and to Peter, and to other children around the world whose parents have . . ."

He pauses for a moment, a real and reflective pause, before continuing.

". . . whose parents have failed them, left the picture, left the ship."

For a couple of seconds there is silence between the host and the guest on the stage, as Katie simply stares at the man across from her, sending up a silent prayer of thanks for this exclusive.

"You do know," she finally begins again, "you will be walking away from millions of dollars with Derek Storm. And possibly more awards. I mean, Derek Storm is your golden goose, the kind most authors can only dream about."

"Perhaps," he tells her, "but I promise you, I won't look back. Only to the future now, Katie. Only to the future."

She has no idea what these words truly mean, as she calls for the break, leans over to hug her guest and grabs her phone, now tweeting out the exclusive news that she has just broken.


	24. Chapter 24

**Kairos – Chapter 24**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Monday Evening – April 29, 2013, 10:47 p.m., at Kate Beckett (Bracken's) apartment in New York_**

.

Kate Beckett . . . Bracken sits in the comfortable, plush living room, her eyes fixated on the big-screen, sixty-five inch television built into the massive stone wall adjacent to the fireplace. Cassandra sits next to her. Both women have their feet propped up on the large ottoman in front of them. Both have been silent – except for the commercial breaks – during the interview with Richard Castle.

Madison is asleep in Kate's lap, breathing easily, occasionally hugging her mother tightly. Kate watches the young girl's chest expand up, then down – repeating the motion. Such a simple motion captivates her. She can do this for hours, it seems. Her hand idly brushes the little girl's bangs as she glances up at the television, and then back down to her daughter, once she confirms they are still on commercial break.

Her husband, Senator Bracken, is still out of town – back in Washington, D.C., called back to the nation's capital by none less than the President himself. He has told her he has no idea what the meeting is about, although she has her doubts. He is far too connected – she has learned this much – to have no idea what the chief executive wants to discuss.

Fortunately Kate – in this timeline – is an avid Richard Castle reader, and so staying up to watch this interview is entirely within her character, in the mind of Cassandra. The live-in nanny doesn't give a second thought to Kate being interested . . . no, make that _fascinated_ by the man on the television screen. She does, however, find tonight's viewing to be of great interest. She, too, is a Castle fan of sorts.

"I am surprised," Cassandra tells her. "He is nothing like the media portrays him to be. He is nothing like the YouTube videos I have seen."

"Oh, so you _are_ a fan," Kate teases her, elbowing her in the side jovially. It's a comfortable move for Kate, but one that the older woman is not used to seeing from her boss. Not that Cassandra is complaining, mind you.

"How can one not be a fan?" Cassandra replies, laughing with Kate, enjoying this unusual casual downtime with the woman of the house.

"All of his books – they are magical. His imagination is wonderful. You don't get an Oscar and a couple of Emmys without having _some_ talent. That much is undeniable. But he is not . . . he does not appear to be the man I assumed he was," Cassandra continues.

 _"You have no idea,"_ Kate thinks to herself.

She has been double-minded for the past hour. It has been difficult watching and listening to the man she loves gush praise – so lavishly and so intimately – upon another woman. Especially Kyra. But to his credit, Castle had warned her that this was exactly what he would be doing. His goal, he has told her, is to change his persona to something more akin to who he really is; to begin to repair decades of damage to the reputation of his name.

His name, as he told her, is carried by his daughter and son. His actions – whether intended or not – would always be laid at the feet of his children. By mean-spirited middle schoolers and high schoolers for Peter, and by highly competitive college students for Alexis. He has already learned this lesson the hard way, with Alexis in their original timeline, as the young girl tried to navigate the school landscape with a page-six father.

He won't do this to her again . . . he won't do this to Peter either. Not anymore. It is critical that he give them a different playing field. It is absolutely an imperative that he change the ground rules for them.

And further, he has told Kate that his wife of this time period deserves far more than he has given her. His words to Kate, this afternoon, after he had landed in Los Angeles, stung long and hard. He didn't mean them to. It was totally unintentional, and he tried to catch himself before the sting was complete. Unfortunately, he was too late.

 _"Kyra deserves retribution – publicly, Kate,"_ he had told her _. "And I'm going to give it to her. I've been an ass to her in the public eye, always concerned about making myself look better – and too often, to the detriment of Kyra. The videos I've seen of myself . . . they are horrible, Kate. And usually ending up making her look . . . less than she is. And still, she's made me better, it appears, but I'm still a jerk. And she's had to live with it, as much as my kids who are on the other coast. Well, they're here – or I'm here – you know what I mean,"_ he had stumbled clumsily, getting his thoughts together. Thoughts that he had already laid out during the six-hour flight, but now those thoughts are not coming together as words very easily. For an author with a great command of words, the irony is not lost on him.

 _"I've treated her far worse than I have treated you, while she has treated me far better than . . ."_

He had stopped right there, hoping he had hit the brakes in time. But deep in his heart, he knew he had skidded across the finish line.

Kate knew.

Kate knew exactly how he meant to finish that sentence.

 _"She has treated me far better than you."_

He didn't even need to say it. Kate knew. And he knew. The only thing he didn't know was why he was thinking this now. Why – after a year together – had his insecurities with Kate reared their head once again. Last week had been a game-changer for them. He had stayed with her, not leaving her to die. Their reward? Gates came public with them, allowing them to come public themselves. Now, the final barrier to them moving forward completely had been taken out of the way. Yet, here he sits, a little over a week later, wondering why two days with Kyra Blaine has thrown his emotional state into the blender.

And Kate, for her part, is exactly where he is – if not more so. She's in the blender, on full pulse mode.

She's married to a man she can't stand . . . but with each passing hour, her rationale for why she hates Senator Bracken grows weaker, and weaker. She considers him the murderer of her mother . . . only her mother isn't dead. She's alive and well. Her father is fine. She has a sister. She has a child.

A daughter. Given to her by this man.

A ring on her finger. Given to her by this man.

A rapidly-rising career. Gained on her own, no doubt, but clearly mentored by this man, who opened the right doors for her. She walked through those doors on her own, of course, but those were doors that should have been closed to her for at least another decade.

If not for this man.

And she hates this man?

She hates this man who didn't kill her mother, who mentored her, who fell in love with her, who put a ring on her finger and child in her belly. And who despite the heavy load of political leadership, by all appearances he constantly rushes home – by plane, train or automobile – at the first chance just to be with his family. His daughter. His wife.

Her.

So yeah, she listens and watches this interview with growing interest, and highly conflicted emotions. Make no mistake - her love for Richard Castle isn't diminishing.

But her hatred for William Bracken is.

"Is it possible?" Cassandra asks her, pulling her out of her reverie as she reaches to her right and grabs the glass of wine from the coaster on the sofa table beside her.

"Is what possible?" Kate replies, blinking quickly and looking at the woman who clearly is more than just a nanny to the Brackens. To her.

"Is it possible that a person could change . . . _really_ change . . . this much . . . almost overnight like this," Cassandra asks, pointing toward the television screen. The look on her face is one of bewilderment.

"Oh I think so," Kate tells her, and she has to take this position. She has to answer this way because she is beginning to believe it herself – about herself.

She's often discounted the concept of people changing – really and truly changing – unless they have come through some type of life-altering circumstance. And when she considers her own self, and her slowly-but-surely diminishing hatred for William Bracken . . . well, yeah, it appears people can have a dramatic change of mind . . . and heart.

Yeah, people can change sometimes. Under life-altering circumstance. Circumstances like getting your murdered mother back. Like having a child. Like having the business career you always planned for – that you went to college for. That you dreamed about.

Yeah, those kind of changes.

Her attention is drawn back to the television – the interview is back on, and the host is wrapping things up. Her timing could not be more providential.

"Well, Rick, I must say that this has been an eye-opening hour," Katie King laughs, glancing at her audience and then reaching her hand across the small coffee table to shake the hand of the novelist/playwright.

"Thank you, Kate," he replies affably, taking her hand and shaking it. "Likewise, I hope you know."

"I have to tell you, not many people are willing to put themselves out there as you have, Rick," she continues. "I think – no, let me say it a different way – I _hope_ that there are a lot of people who are now altering their views of Richard Castle."

"Perhaps," he gives her, "but in truth, I'm only really concerned about a few people. Those who are closest to me," he continues, and now he has turned his gaze away from Katie King, and now is facing the cameras. He is an expert at being interviewed, and be interviewed live. Hundreds of book tours and press tours through the years will give you this comfort level. He always knows where the cameras are, and when the right time to face those cameras arises. Up to now, his full attention has been on his host – with an occasional glance and acknowledgement to the studio audience. She is the expert interviewer, no doubt. However, he is no less an expert _in being_ interviewed, and getting his views, his thoughts, his story, across to an audience.

Now, however, his eyes are fixated on the camera. Now, he has a much different audience who needs to hear this.

"Sometimes, you have to be willing to do anything . . . _anything_ " he stresses, "for those you love. No matter what it ends up costing. No matter what the outcome turns out to be. And you can only hope that person realizes how much you love them – how much I love you – and that everything I have done, no matter how it has turned out, was for you. It was for _you_. Always."

The audience, the media, the press, all of the articles in the next hours that are written – they all believe him to be speaking directly to his wife. To Kyra. To his kids.

In New York, a tearful Kyra Castle grips the sheets of her bed where she lies, basking in the unusual public affection her husband has given her. Sure, inside their home he has always been the gentleman – sweet and kind and considerate. But in public, he has always allowed a very different persona to take over, all too often at her expense.

In California, a stunned Alexis Castle and an equally confused Peter Castle stare dumbfounded at their television screen, joyful yet cautious over what they have just heard.

But in Kate Bracken's – nee Beckett's – high rise apartment home, she has turned her head away from Cassandra so that the older woman does not see the tears springing into her eyes. She stifles a sniffle, clutching even tighter to the tiny sleeping form in her lap. Because Kate Beckett knows exactly who those concluding thoughts were intended for. She wasn't sure, for a while as he was saying them. They could have easily been for Kyra, or for Alexis or even Peter.

But one word had changed all of that.

 _"Always."_

With that single word, she knew he was talking directly to her.

She knew that – despite the potential happiness he has found here, despite the happiness she has found here, and despite the fact that he has two children he is rebuilding the bridges towards – his love for her has not diminished either. And in his own, unique way, he has found an avenue to speak directly to her, using a word that would certainly sound poetic to others . . . but would scream intimacy to Kate.

She glances back at the television, eager to catch another glimpse of him before the show ends. He is standing now – well, at least attempting to stand. He stumbles, a look of agony on his face momentarily before he regroups, catching himself on the small table.

"Is everything okay, Rick?" Katie asks, startled by his . . . his clumsiness? Is that what it is?

"Everything is fine," he replies, smiling – offering a look of bemused embarrassment. Fortunately Katie buys it, as does the audience.

Kate, however, has placed her fingers over her chest – to the spot that occasionally hurts now, as she is finally putting two and two together. She's seen him limping. She just hasn't really commented on it. Maybe it was because he wasn't commenting. Just as she has not commented about the pain in her chest. But now it's clear that his limp is pronounced. He is hurting. For a brief moment, she wonders if he is going to have to have it replaced.

Her train of thought is interrupted as the credits begin to roll. The show has ended, and Kate is hoping for a phone call. If not, she will call him. There's no one there that should question her calling – not in California. They wouldn't know her anyway.

She glances over at Cassandra, who is eyeing her warily.

"Is everything all right, Ms. Kate?" Cassandra asks. Clearly the woman knows her very well. She's picking up on Kate's different nuances.

"Just a long few days," Kate replies, and it's the truth. "Nothing a few hours of shut-eye won't take care of," she continues as she slowly moves from underneath Madison. Reaching down, she lifts the young girl into her arms.

 _"She's so light,"_ Kate thinks to herself, and then begins to walk towards the stairs as she cradles the young girl.

"Do you need help, Ms. Kate?" Cassandra asks. Her wide-eyed expression is not seen by Kate, who already has her back to the woman as she carries her daughter up the stairs to her bedroom.

"Nope, I've got this," Kate tells her, smiling but not looking back.

Behind her, Cassandra views the woman walking away with a raised eyebrow and a multitude of questions.

.

 ** _Monday Evening – April 29, 2013, at the exact same time somewhere in Washington, D.C._**

.

The older, silver-haired man frowns, his brow furrowed deeply now at the television screen here in his hotel room. The single tumbler in his hand, filled with golden liquid is half full. He lies length-wise on bed, on top of the covers, relaxing after another eventful day.

He, too, has been watching the interview between Katie King and Richard Castle. With few exceptions, he always makes the time to watch when Richard Castle in on television – whether for interviews, conferences or some award show.

And he, too, has noticed some broad differences between the man on the screen and the Richard Castle he knows. A frightening thought had occurred to him roughly twenty-five minutes ago, during the second break. The author seemed different. Too different. As though he were a different person.

No. Not a different person. A _displaced_ person.

Once the commercials ended and the interview resumed, he had pushed the thoughts away, out of his mind. It was a stupid thought. It wasn't possible. He had sat back and enjoyed the latter part of the show – right up until the end. Right up until the moment where Richard Castle had shaken King's hand, and then had tried to stand, but stumbled instead. He watched Richard Castle immediately grab for his hip, then just as quickly let it go, trying to catch himself.

As if he were trying to hide something.

"You're injured, son," he says aloud, and again, he would know. Jackson Hunt watches all of his son's appearances, and the last time he had seen his son on television was only a mere two months ago at the Academy Awards. And his son – then a presenter for an award – was the model of good health. He had looked spry in his walk, and videos from one of the after parties that made their way online showed a dancing and limber novelist cutting it up on the dance floor, having a grand time.

Further, he has heard nothing of any injuries to Castle, and he makes it his business to know – with alerts sent to him almost daily about the man.

Jackson Hunt returns to his initial thought of half an hour or so ago, and curses loudly. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, placing them onto the floor as he sits the half-filled tumbler atop the nightstand. Frowning, he pulls out a hardened laptop, opens it and fires it up quickly. He enters the IP address of a server, located at an undisclosed area to all but him, and using it as a host, pings a second IP address. He smiles when the second location returns the ping, and he logs in using his classified credentials. His small monitor displays a back-end screen with a series of gibberish – numbers, symbols – nothing making sense. Entering his encryption key, the screen slowly morphs into legible words, which replace the symbols and numbers.

He glances down to the bottom of the screen, where the word 'Kronologix' is displayed.

He enters a few keystrokes, initiating a command, and views a history of 'transactions' and notices a particular name, with longitude and latitude numbers along with a date. He ignores everything – for now – except the name.

 _Richard Castle._

He notices the name below that of Castle's, and glances at the other numbers alongside. Same numbers, which tells him he wasn't alone.

 _Kate Beckett._

Livid, he slams the laptop closed and stands, pacing quickly, a run of expletives escaping from his mouth. Finally, needing some type of outlet, he slams his open palm across the lampshade, knocking the light fixture to the ground. Dammit, she was supposed to disable the technology. Put it away. The technology was designed for one purpose, and one purpose only. One purpose, _one time only_. She knows this. She was a part of this. She knows how dangerous this is.

"Sandra, what the fuck have you done now!?" he asks aloud, as he stands and quickly moves to the closet, pulling out a suitcase and gathering his belongings.


	25. Chapter 25

**Kairos – Chapter 25**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Tuesday Evening – April 30, 2013, 10:47 p.m., at LaGuardia Airport in New York City_**

.

"Mr. Castle! Mr. Castle!"

The flight attendant gives the novelist a small shake on his shoulder, rustling him out of the deep sleep his has fallen into.

"Wha . . . What?" he exclaims, regaining quickly regaining consciousness, and immediately noticing that the plane has landed and is, for the most part, empty. All of the other first class passengers have already de-boarded, as have the majority of passengers from coach. He stares out the window, seeing the other planes lined up at their designated gates, in the dark of night.

"We're here . . . in New York, Mr. Castle," the attractive woman tells him. She desperately wants to ask for an autograph, but the author had spent the entire flight sleeping. They hadn't even pulled away from the gate at DFW International Airport before he had fallen asleep. No drinks, no snacks, no warm nuts.

It has been a long two days for Richard Castle, and the hours had finally caught up with him. He didn't get much sleep last night. He spent a couple of hours in the bar at the hotel after sending text messages to both Kyra and Kate that he was tired, and headed to bed. He needed a little time to relax, and to think without any interruptions.

His interview with Katie King from last night is well out of his mind, as most of his thoughts were about the dramatically increasing pain in his hip. A pain that has resurfaced now, as he pulls himself up from his seat in the fifth row of first class.

He painfully reaches up to the overhead compartment, and pulls his overnight bag out, grunting as another jolt of pain shoots down his leg. He is tired. He is cranky. He has been flying literally all day. His flight from LAX had left at eight in the morning, with a layover in Dallas. The three hour time difference from the west coast to the east coast is also playing with him. He smiles at the flight attendant, now standing at the doorway to the jet-bridge as he moves now with a very noticeable limp.

His mind conjures up an image of a Richard Castle, grey stubble on his chin, cane in hand . . .

At this hour, there are no more flights heading west from his gate at LaGuardia, so the gate area is virtually empty as he steps through the doorway from the jet-bridge into the gate area, dragging his four-wheeled small suitcase behind him. He considers placing a call to Kyra, to let her know he has landed, but decides to wait until he is in the taxi cab. Right now, he doesn't want to expend any energy on unnecessary motion – and that includes the simple act of reaching into his coat pocket and retrieving his cell phone.

The lone man in the gate area, seated in one of the seats just to the left of the boarding area, stands as he sees the novelist depart. He wears large, lightly tinted black-rimmed glasses and a New York Giants baseball cap to match the large letter jacket from the NFL team.

Castle is too tired to notice as the man approaches him, his head down and his steps slow and easy. The man pulls up alongside Castle, and falls into step with him as he walks down the large corridor away from his gate and towards the escalators some one hundred or so yards away that will lead him downstairs to baggage claim and the taxi stands.

Castle finally notices the figure walking alongside him, and sees the TSA badge hanging around the man's neck. He doesn't give him a second thought, until the man begins speaking.

"Richard, keep moving, don't do anything sudden, and don't do anything stupid," the man tells him as they continue walking. He waits until a startled Castle glances his way again to open up the right side of his New York Giants jacket, revealing the weapon in the shoulder holster there. He does this subtly with his right hand, as his left now grabs Castle's right arm, ensuring his movement and cooperation.

"Who are you?" Castle asks, trying to extradite his arm, unsuccessfully.

"I just told you – nothing sudden, nothing stupid," the man tells him. "Trust me, there is far more at play here than your stupid little mind has dreamed up, and I won't hesitate to put a bullet in you right here, right now, surveillance cameras or not. Are we clear?"

"We're clear," a now clearly awake and aware Richard Castle replies, allowing the man to lead him along. Suddenly, the man lets go of Castle's arm, freeing him.

"Keep moving," he tells him, "and don't try to run. I doubt your hip will let you get very far anyway," he continues, which stops Castle in his tracks.

Yeah, that did it.

He stops with him, allowing the moment of shock to sink in before continuing.

"Come on, Richard," Jackson Hunt tells him. "We've got to get out of here."

The two men are now looking at each other, and Jackson's fears are confirmed. He can see it in Castle's eyes. The recognition. Castle knows him. They've met.

Only they haven't.

"Dad?" Castle asks, now clearly confused.

Hunt shakes his head angrily, now grabbing his son's arm again, and this time he is all but dragging Castle down the corridor. He doesn't say another word as he leads him down the escalators.

"Dad, what's this all about?" Castle begins. "Why are you-"

"Shut up!" Hunt orders, with such ferocity that for once in a long time – Richard Castle isn't just shocked or taken aback. No, he is flat out frightened for his life.

They walk in continued silence for another hundred or so yards, exiting toward their right where the cabs are all lined up. The cool spring air is a pleasant change to the stuffiness inside the baggage claim area. To the right side of the taxis, there is a large, black SUV. The rear lights blink – with a chirping sound – as the doors unlock as they approach. Hunt drops all pretense now, taking the handgun from his shoulder harness and pointing it at the writer.

"Get in," he tells him. "Now. I won't ask twice."

A weary Richard Castle complies. This is his father. So he isn't going to hurt him . . . not really. Is he? Right now he isn't sure of anything. Not anymore.

Hunt slides into the driver's seat, placing the weapon in the door slot as he closes the door. He fires the engine up as he turns to address his highly agitated passenger.

"How do you know me?" Jackson begins as he puts the vehicle into motion.

"What?" Castle asks, incredulously. Then it hits him. This is a different timeline. Who knows how – or if – he has ever met Jackson Hunt. And from the look of it, the two haven't met. Ever.

"I'm the one asking the questions," he replies with a glare, and suddenly his right hand flies horizontally, slamming against Castle's chest. He wheezes broadly, trying to catch his breath. Hunt accelerates now, pulling out of the taxi area, and within a couple of minutes, they are on the Grand Central Expressway, heading toward the city.

"Now that I have your attention," Hunt continues, "answer my question. How do you know me?"

"You're my father," Castle replies softly, rubbing the offending area on his chest. "You're in the CIA. We met a couple of months ago. Alexis was kidnapped. Russians. I went to Paris. Met you there. Kind of like this," he almost chuckles. "You helped rescue my daughter. Your grand-daughter."

Hunt continues to drive the SUV, quiet for a moment as he considers everything he has just heard. It makes sense, dammit. He shakes his head, once again cursing internally at Dr. Sandra Windholm. He will deal with her later.

"Kronologix. How many times?" he finally asks his passenger, who now has calmed down and stares out the window at the buildings that whiz by.

"Two," Castle asks. He knows what he is being asked, and it's clear that this man – his father – knows what has happened. How, he doesn't know yet. But he isn't going to risk another shot to the chest, or worse, a shot of a different kind given the weapon that is still within his father's reach.

"Twice," Hunt repeats, shaking his head, trying to quell the anger that rises inside him. "That's great. That's just great," he muses to himself, muttering under his breath.

He flexes his fingers on the steering wheel, taking a couple of deep breaths before looking at his passenger again.

"So, I want you to listen to me, and listen closely because I am not going to repeat myself," he begins. "I am your father, as you have indicated. We, however, have never met. Ever. I have made sure of that. This kidnapping you referred to, this rescue you referred to . . . didn't happen. Not here anyway."

Castle simply nods his head. He's figured that much out already. He figures his father is going to fill in the remaining gaps. And these gaps must be bad, because the man sitting next to him is beyond angry.

"Okay," Castle replies simply. "I understand."

"No, you _don't_ understand!" Hunt explodes again, causing another shiver to shoot down his son's spine. "You have no idea what . . . you have no idea what you could have done!"

Suddenly, Hunt reaches across Castle, popping open the glove compartment. He pulls out a small light kit. Rolling his window down, he places the light atop his side of the roof, and turns it on, along with a siren. Seconds later, he is accelerating, weaving between traffic and blowing past the traffic that pulls over for him.

"Care to explain what –"

"No, I don't," Hunt interrupts. "We'll be there in fifteen, twenty minutes," he tells him. "Until then, just shut up Richard. Just shut up."

.

 ** _Tuesday Evening – April 30, 2013, 11:33 p.m., At the Kronologix Facility in Brooklyn_**

.

Richard Castle walks through the front door, into the now all-too-familiar first floor lobby area ahead of his 'host', who openly brandishes his weapon behind him. The room is dark – absolutely no lights whatsoever. This is new.

As soon as Hunt turns on the lights, using the light switch at the door, Castle notices two things.

First, the windows are all boarded up, and taped shut. He nods, now realizing why no light was entering the room.

Second, he notices Kate Beckett, tied to a chair in the middle of the lobby room. The chair is bolted to the floor, and sits atop a thick carpet. Probably to muffle the sound, he figures. Tape covers her mouth, and the restraints on her hands and arms and legs are professionally done.

"Kate!" he screams, rushing to her side, trying to ignore the increasing pain in his hip. For some reason, Hunt allows their reunion. He allows Castle to take the tape from her mouth, and allows him to begin to untie her as well.

Hunt, for his part, moves casually throughout the lobby to the café area. He goes into the small kitchen, opening the refrigerator, and – to the stunned surprise of his guests – retrieves three water bottles. He tosses one to the now freed Kate, who catches it in the air. He tosses the other to his son. The third, he keeps for himself as he moves in front of the couple, motioning them with the gun, to sit on the small sofa bench in the reception area.

"Now, first things first," he begins as the couple takes their seats. "A few ground rules. I don't give a damn about your daughter," he tells Kate, eyeing her evenly.

"I don't give a damn about your wife," he says, glancing at Castle, before returning his gaze to Kate.

"And I don't give a damn about your husband, or whatever the hell this is that you and my son have going on."

"Your son?" Kate asks, eyes widening. Suddenly, she glances at Castle.

"This is . . . he's your father?" she exclaims.

"Enough with the introductions," he tells the couple. "Really son? The district attorney? You have a great wife, who loves you at home. But it's not enough? And you?" he says, glancing at Kate, before growing quiet for a few seconds.

"No matter," he says, not even allowing for an answer, deciding it's unimportant. "What I want to know is why. Why did you two do this? How in the hell did you meet Dr. Sandra Windholm? And what in the hell possessed you to do something so stupid . . . not once . . . but twice? Shit, you two take the cake, you really do!" he concludes, shaking his head. He's getting angry again. He doesn't want to be angry. He doesn't like it when he's angry, but he can't help it. Too much has happened to allow these two . . .

He shakes himself away from those thoughts, turning his focus on the couple again.

"Start talking," he tells them. "I really don't care which of you starts . . . but one of you better start explaining yourselves."

"Can I start by asking a question, Dad?" Castle asks, using the title that he hopes will grant him even a modicum of leeway here. It works, as Hunt eyes him with a raised eyebrow before removing his baseball cap, tossing it to the side.

"One question," he tells his son.

"How did you know?" Castle asks. "We've been in the same room – close range – with people who should know us very well, who should have seen if anything was off. Obviously you saw something and searched us out right away. How'd you know?"

"Your hip," Hunt tells him. "You don't know me in this timeline, but I know you. I've always kept tabs on you. I see you on television, on award shows, on the internet. I'd seen you just a couple of months ago and you were perfectly healthy. Last night, you struggled to stand up. You winced every time you moved. I know the tale-tell signs of a reconstruction. I just hoped that wasn't it. When I logged into the transport room, I saw both your names, and the date of your . . . transmission. A couple of days ago. That's when I knew."

"Logged in?" Kate asks, unable to halt her natural curiosity.

"Every time the transport room downstairs opens a wormhole, it logs the date, the time, the location and who was transmitted," he tells her. "I suppose I should have had it automatically send me an alert each time as well . . . no matter . . . anyway, that's your one question. Now start talking. How'd you meet Windholm, and what in the hell did the two of you do?"

"I'm a writer," Castle begins.

"I know that," Hunt replies.

"She was a fan," Castle continues. "My last book . . . in my timeline . . . included an element of time travel. She told me she was intrigued by my theories. She told me –"

"Bullshit!" Hunts spits. "The only thing Sandra reads are scientific articles and interviews. She has no time for the crap you write. She'd no more read a fictional novel than she'd jump off a building."

"Maybe in this timeline that's true," Castle argues. "But in my –"

"Son, don't bullshit me, I'm not in the mood," Hunt tells him. "You two don't know what you are playing with. What you could have done. This technology, this facility – Kronologix – it was built for one reason, and one reason only. And trust me, it didn't have anything to do with a writer or district attorney going back in time for God only knows what."

"My mother," Kate tells him. She lets her words hang in the air for a moment.

"What about your mother?" Hunt asks.

"She died," Kate tells him. "I was in college. She was murdered. Unsolved case. Castle and I went back to –"

"Castle?" he interrupts. "You call him Castle?"

"Never mind about that, Dad," Castle tells him. "Finish the story, Kate."

"Rick . . . your son and I are together . . . we were together in our timeline. Rick went back with me to stop my mother's murder."

Hunt is quiet for a moment, staring at the couple. He's angry, sure, but he's also a realist. He can't be angry with her. Or him. He can imagine how it unfolded now. A well-respected scientist comes to them with the offer of a lifetime . . . one that can make one's dream come true. A parent died. A parent taken away. And someone offers you a chance to right a wrong. Someone offers you a chance to get a loved one back.

No, he can't be angry with them.

Sandra, on the other hand . . .

"Okay," he begins, rubbing his hands through his hair. "I can understand, Ms. Beckett, why you would do such a stupid and selfish stunt. You don't know better. It's like the universe smiling on you – you thought this was a good thing. A chance to right a wrong."

He stands now, beginning to pace again. He puts the gun back into his shoulder harness, now seemingly ignoring his guests.

"Sandra, however, knew better," he continues, now clearly talking to himself.

"She knew that it was wrong to mess with the timelines for personal gain. She knows the one, singular reason this technology was built – why we funded the whole operation in the first place.

He looks to the couple and waves them toward him as he walks to the elevator, depressing the down arrow.

"Come on," he tells them. "Let's get this over with."

"What?" Castle asks.

"Look, I'm trying to be nice here," Hunt replies, slightly opening his jacket once again. "Don't make me have to take this out again. I might not be so hesitant to use it next time."

Kate eyes him with anger and surprise.

"You would threaten your own son?" she questions.

"I would kill him in a nanosecond to protect what we have accomplished," he tells her evenly and she can tell that he is serious. Deadly serious. She and Castle obey, quickly joining him in the elevator. The ride – as expected – goes seven floors down once again. The trio is quiet for the short trip, and when the doors open, the bright lights bathe the downstairs facility, causing them to squint momentarily.

When they step off, Castle notices there is a figure in the middle of the room, some hundred or so yards away. He – or she – is sitting in a chair. Immobile. As they draw closer, he can tell it is a woman. At twenty yards, he is not surprised to discover the identity.

Dr. Sandra Windholm.

She is tied up, trussed much as Kate was, and with a similar strip of tape across her mouth. Castle moves to free the doctor, as he did Kate, when a loud booming echo reverberates throughout the facility. Dr. Windholm falls over, a large gaping hole in her forehead.

Castle and Kate both scream out loud, and Castle angrily turns to face his father, who offers him a nonplussed explanation.

"Don't worry," he tells them. "When you get back, she will be alive and well again."

He reaches into his jacket again – this time on the left side – to retrieve a piece of paper. No, it is more than a piece of paper. It is a carefully folded newspaper. The headline page. He hands the page to his son, whose hands immediately start shaking uncontrollably. He barely is able to hand the page to Kate Beckett, who gasps, falling to the floor as her legs give way. She stares down at the page, shaking her head.

"No," she whispers.

"I'm afraid so, Ms. Beckett," Hunt tells her. "This is why we built Kronologix. It is the _only_ – and I do mean the _only_ reason this place exists."

She reads – once again – the headline on the old, slightly faded paper screaming at her. She notes the date at the top.

April 17, 1942.

 _U.S. Surrenders._

She reads the smaller headline just below that.

 _Hitler to arrive at Capitol tomorrow._


	26. Chapter 26

**Kairos – Chapter 26**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Tuesday Evening – April 29, 2013, 11:48 p.m., at the Kronologix Facility in Brooklyn, New York_**

.

A stunned and visibly shaking Richard Castle is glancing back and forth, between the bleeding body of Dr. Sandra Windholm, to Kate Beckett on her knees on the floor, and the newspaper in her hands with the headline that has just tossed a hand grenade into their world as they knew it. In less than one minute, Jackson Hunt has managed to:

A – Murder someone in cold blood right in front of him.

B – Reduce the woman he loves to an almost gibbering mess, and given everything she has gone through in her life, that's saying a lot.

And Finally, C – Utterly destroy everything about his world, his life. If this headline really means what he thinks it means.

"On your feet, Ms. Beckett," Jackson Hunt orders, now tugging his son away towards the large platform that serves as the demonstration area. "Or would you prefer me to use your married name – Mrs. Bracken? By the way, you're going to have to explain to me someday, why you kept your maiden name after you married. I know it is a common thing for women to do, but . . . hey, just call me old-fashioned. I always –"

"You killed her!" Castle whispers . . . okay, it's more of a whimper, as he tries to extract himself from the older man – unsuccessfully. He is still in shell shock over the headline in Kate's hands, as well as the very dead body on the floor behind them.

"What do you mean the U.S. surrendered?" Kate is finally is able to ask, although her legs aren't working just yet.

"Read the story," Hunt tells her. "It's in plain English. The United States lost World War II. Germany won. The Nazis won. Japan won. I don't know another way to say the words. Perhaps if you –"

"How?" Castle asks, if voice finally working again. "How is this possible?"

"Which part?" Hunt asks, then turns to Kate. "Ms. Beckett, I'm losing my patience. Up and at 'em. Let's go. I don't have all night."

"The . . . all of this," Castle asks, ignoring the new side conversation occurring between his father and Kate.

"That," Castle says pointing to the newspaper, "and all of this," he concludes, waving his hands in a semi-circle which takes in the facility.

"What happened?" he asks again.

Jack Hunt stops, which allows Castle to stop. He turns, making sure that Kate is, in fact, coming to her senses and picking herself up from the floor. Satisfied, he turns his attention back to his son, but speaks loudly enough for Kate to hear as well.

"Everything you two have read in your history books about World War II is a result of a historical re-set, engineered by a very, very small contingent within the original CIA – the real CIA. The one you know nothing about."

He glances over toward Kate, who is listening, walking unsteadily while reading the headline story on the paper she holds.

"The Nazis won the war. It's a long story, but I will try to make this as brief as possible," Hunt tells them. He begins walking again, and the couple falls in line behind him.

"In the spring of 1940, Germany attacked France. It was a fool's gamble, according to their military leaders, yet it worked. And it only took them six weeks to conquer France," he tells them. "This took the world by surprise. Because in World War I, Germany and France had fought to a stalemate in a four year, inconclusive trench war. So when Hitler decided he wanted to invade France again, he found himself – for the most part – with zero support from the German High Command, who did not want a repeat of the trench war from just a few decades earlier. In fact, when Hitler even suggested invading France, they thought he was insane. Six weeks later, after a huge strategic gamble of pushing his tanks through the Ardennes forest – which was at the time considered impassible by tank – he is considered a military genius. People were beginning to think a Nazi victory was predestined. By now, he is supremely confident. His next move was to attack Russia."

"I already know all of this," Castle tells him, as he begins to reach back into his knowledge about World War II from his memory banks. War has always been something of more than passing interest to Richard Castle, so yeah, he is quite the history buff.

"You aren't telling me anything new," Castle continues. "Hitler attacked Russia and pushed over a thousand miles into Russia before finally being turned back at Moscow. Some historians consider that the turning point of the war. The war that _we won_ , by the way."

"And those historians are correct," Hunt agrees, ignoring Castle's final statement as he takes the newspaper from the hands of Kate Beckett. "Except they are writing about revisionist history."

He watches the confusion paint small features across Castle's face, and snickers to himself.

"So, here is what _really_ happened," Hunt continues. "Hitler pushed into Russia, as you said, and reached Moscow. In your history books, you probably have read how Stalin considered leaving Moscow, escaping before the Nazis arrived. In your history books, you probably have read about how Stalin was prepared to leave one long night in October of 1941. The train was waiting for him. You've probably read about the sheer terror that had overtaken the city of Moscow and the surrounding areas. And you've probably read about how Stalin bravely decided to stay - and for once - began to rely on the knowledge and strategy of his generals who actually knew something about waging war."

Castle nods his head, as does Kate. Kate Beckett, being a student of the Russian language and Russian history, knows all of this as well.

"None of that is what actually happened," Hunt tells them, and pauses as he sees the look of disbelief on Kate's face.

"In reality, Stalin did in fact, board the trains on the night of October 16, 1941. He made a run for it, escaping the advancing Nazis. Days later, Moscow fell in a matter of hours. The entire spirit of the fight was taken out of the Russians. Moscow fell. Then Stalingrad fell. The Nazis now were in control of all of Europe, save Britain. Within a couple of months, Britain fell easily then also."

Hunt pauses again, glancing between his two guests, allowing this new information to soak in.

" _That's_ what really happened," he tells them. He begins walking up the stairs to the platform. Reaching the top, he stands aside, allowing Castle and Kate to step up as well. He moves towards the wall, which is actually part of the hollowed out earth at this level. He fumbles for a few seconds at the wall until he reaches the lever, which opens up a section of the wall – perhaps eight feet tall and four feet wide. For a minute, Castle thinks he is taking them into a new room until he realizes it is simply a closet of sorts. Actually, as he looks closer, he notices that this closet opens up into the real transport room beyond, where he and Kate have made two trips. There are shelves inside with numerous boxes on either side of the wall. Hunt pulls out the one to the far left, and carries it to the table on the platform.

"Sit," he tells the duo, who comply without thinking. Castle offers another look back at the dead form of Sandra Windholm before turning his attention to the information now being displayed on the table.

"Now, during all of this time," Hunt continues, "the United States was busy waging its own little war in the South Pacific against Japan, its forces stretched far too thin. Further, the U.S. was still recovering from losing so much of its fleet at Pearl Harbor, and so our industrial ramp-up was focused there. So we were totally unprepared for the blitzkrieg assault that came from Germany on our own shores in early 1942. We are still amassing our infrastructure, _preparing_ for war when the Nazis began the American invasion. New York fell first, being reduced to rubble in less than a week."

He shows them a picture of the New York skyline, circa 1943. Much of it lies in ruins, with an occasional building here and there. He then shows them a picture of the skyline taken in 2002. Manhattan has been rebuilt, but is less than half the size it is today, with the tall skyscrapers scattered throughout."

"D.C fell next, with the President retreating inland to Chicago," he continues, now showing them pictures from 1943 of the nation's capital, completely leveled. The White House? Gone. Hunt then shows them – again – a more recent picture, this one taken in 2004."

"What's this?" Kate asks, her voice nervous and breaking. They are looking at a building that resembles the White House, but it clearly isn't. It is almost light gray in color, and the steeples on the side give it more of the look of a castle than a capital building.

"The Fuhrer's Capitol in the Americas," Hunt tells them. "Almost a replica of the original in Berlin," he continues. It's not until he tells them this that they notice the Nazi flag flying high above.

"Having to now protect the eastern front, the U.S. forces were even further divided, he continues, and there is a sadness in his voice. "Further, after the second attack at Pearl Harbor, we lost the Hawaiian Islands. The Japanese were able to use that as a base of operations to attack our western mainland coastal areas. Los Angeles fell to the Japanese, followed by San Francisco. With the Japanese invading from the west, and the Germans from the east . . . well, it was just a matter of time, then. That's when the U.S. surrendered, with Hitler on the doorstep of Chicago, having advanced as far as Indiana."

He takes out more pictures, now showing a post-war America in the early 1950's. He shows them pictures of a very different United States, one with Nazi flags displayed prominently.

"It was a different country, all because of that war," he tells them, his voice low. "I was born in 1951. I missed the war, but I was a small boy when all of the rest of it happened. I lived with my mother and my sisters. My father was killed during the war. Your grandfather, Richard."

He pauses, staring at one picture in particular, with a haunted look in his eyes.

"That was . . ."

"Yes," Hunt replies to his son. "This was your grandfather. Died at twenty-four years old during the war. I didn't know the man."

"I know the feeling," Castle replies, unable to catch the words before they leave his mouth. For some reason, Hunt allows this without any retort.

"I know you do," is all he says, then he picks up another picture. This one is from another newspaper. The images are chilling.

"The spring of 1958 was known as the year that the Cleanse officially began," Hunt tells them.

"The Cleanse?" Kate asks.

"I'm getting to that," Hunt tells her, undaunted. "That's the rest of the story. It began with the blacks in this country. State-sponsored executions. Some of it by local firing squads, but the vast majority were killed using the new gas chambers erected on Alcatraz Island in San Francisco. Blacks were rounded up, and shipped by railroad to the west coast, under heavy watch by the new Army. Seems like Hitler never forgot – or got over – the embarrassment laid upon him by Jesse Owens in the 36 Olympics in Berlin."

Castle and Kate both gasp, hand over their mouths as they stare at picture after picture of railroad stock cars filled with black families, crowded in like sheep. The fear in their eyes has been captured perfectly, and Castle can imagine the stench of human body laid upon human body, while still alive, and being transported in hot train cars across the country.

"He wanted to make a point," Hunt continues. "A highly visible point, that the white race was the superior race, and that the losses suffered in the stadium in Berlin were an aberration. See, at first, when the Nazi's came in and took over, they made it seem like little would change. They didn't go on mass killing sprees or anything like that. Much of the eastern seaboard was left in rubble, and the path to the Midwest and South, to Alabama was much the same. Ditto for the west coast cities. So there was a huge need to rebuild, and Hitler counted on everyone – white, black, regardless of race or religion – to help that cause."

He pauses for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, before continuing.

"Unfortunately, this caused everyone to fall into a truly false sense of security, because once the rebuilding was finished . . . or at least finished to Hitler's satisfaction, every black person was rounded up and shipped to San Francisco. The trains would pass through the countryside and everyone watching knew what they were, knew where they were going, knew what was happening. And did nothing to stop it."

"But-" Castle interrupts, but his father raises a hand, and Castle backs down.

"Once in San Francisco, the families that survived the trip – and many did not – were loaded onto ferry boats and shipped across the waters to the island. Once there, they had two choices. Willingly step into the gas chambers set up there, or risk the frigid San Francisco bay waters and swim back to the shore."

Castles hands are knotted into fists, and Kate is feeling light-headed. Both know where this story is going. Both have seen human atrocities, but not on this scale.

Hunt picks up a compact disc, and inserts it into the computer on the table to the side of him. He turns the monitor so his guests can watch. A blank screen comes up for a few seconds, and then is replaced by a propaganda video that would turn the stomach of the most hardened of criminals. They watch as hundreds and hundreds of black people – old, young, men, women and children – launch themselves into the cold waters of the bay, desperate for freedom.

The sound heard from the disc is in English, spoken with a heavy German accent. The announcer tells the viewer what his happening.

 _"These are the people who tried to fool the world in the great Olympic event only twenty-two years ago. We now give them the opportunity to repeat their feat, to prove it was no lie. If they make it to the shore, they are free to go, to live where they wish. If they do not, then they do not."_

The video scans the waters, showing the dead, floating bodies of hundreds – thousands – of people in the waters, being carried by the currents. The waters are too cold, the undertow far too strong. The next image shows small tug boats with makeshift nets, fishing the bodies out of the water, and taken further north up the bay to Angel Island, where mass burnings are shown in the next series of video images.

"You show enough people being pulled from the water, dead, and then burned in mass funeral pyres and . . . well, suddenly a quick death in the gas chambers doesn't sound too bad," Hunt tells them with sadness in his eyes.

"After the first month of this, history records that the vast majority of blacks taken to Alcatraz opted for the chambers. They could see the large funeral fires burning on Angel Island across the waters. They entered the chambers, singing spiritual hymns as they walked to their deaths. The arriving ferry boats carrying new shipments of families to the island would hear the singing. Somehow, it strengthened the resolve of those incoming, and apparently touched the hearts of some of the guards, who began to spirit some of the families out in the dead of night – by boat. They would take them down the coast to Mexico where they would be turned loose to fend for themselves."

Castle is openly crying now, trying to get his head around such atrocities. But his father isn't finished. Not by a long shot.

"And this was damn merciful compared to what they did with the Jews," Hunt continues. "Now, when the rest of captive America saw what was going on – believe me – the Jews knew who was next up on the docket. While some in this country had doubts as to the exterminations occurring in Europe in the early 1940's, the Jews did not. And so they ran, as many as they could, south. Into Mexico, and further down into Central and South America. Some went by boat, landing in Cuba. Those who didn't run, died. In the fall of 1958, the Cleanse hit the Jews. There were no train rides west. No propaganda videos. There were simply house-by-house raids, followed by gunshots, stabbings, beatings. The dead were dragged out into the streets and thrown into large truck beds, and taken to central areas where they, too, were burned. Americans who were not Jewish who wished to put themselves into the good graces of our new masters were encouraged to turn in as many Jews as they could find. I wish I could tell you that we resisted. That would be a lie. The Cleanse was brutal, and effective primarily because it counted on frightened Americans turning other Americans in. The Cleanse killed _tens of millions_ of blacks and Jews in the country, and scared the rest of the country into submission. What was left was a country of very little diversity. All white, no blacks, no Jews. Those of Asian backgrounds were spared, because of Japan's alliance with Hitler. But it was tenuous at best, as even they began to flee during the summer of 1959."

He takes the disc out from the computer, and replaces it in its packet. He takes out another series of pictures, showing the United States in the modern era.

"This was taken in early 2012," he tells them, "before we changed things."

The country looks modern, and there is no hint of Nazi flags flying prominently. There was is no need, as the country has been completely absorbed. Generations have died off, and the new generations do not know of any other way of life.

"Everything you know, Richard . . . Ms. Beckett . . . everything you know and have lived – it is a result of a reset we did last year. It is the result of one trip to the past, to change one event."

Hunt gathers up the papers, placing them back into the folders, and placing the folders back into the box he had retrieved. He now turns and faces the couple, who both bear ashen faces. Either could throw up any second now.

"The CIA – the original Central Intelligence Agency – was formed in 1993. It was founded by American Jews displaced into Peru. Their goal was two-fold. First, to gather as much intelligence about the ground war in Europe during World War II, focusing on strategy and execution. Second, to pull together the smartest minds that could be convinced of the cause. Ironically, it all began with a fax that was received by Josef Vincze, one of the pioneers of the organization in Peru. An old family friend, Walter Reise's family had stayed in touch with Josef's family when the Vincze family fled to South America in the late 1950's."

"The Vincze's . . . they were a Jewish family who left the country?" Castle asks, clarifying.

"Yes," Hunt replies. "They left during the Cleanse. Josef wasn't born at the time. Neither was Walter Reise. They became friends through their family communications. Walter's family hid in America, hiding their Jewish heritage. Walter was educated at MIT. Josef Vincze was educated at Pontificia Universidad Catolica del Peru. Both were considered scientific geniuses. The fact that they even knew of each other can only be considered the highest form of providence in the history of the world. Because they changed it all."

"I don't understand," Kate comments, as she stares between the two men. Castle, however, seems to be putting it together.

"You said that a fax started it all," Castle repeats. His father nods his head, but Kate is still searching.

"What did the fax say?" she wonders to the men.

"It didn't matter, babe," Castle tells her, and Hunt barely contains a smile of pride. Yeah, he knew his son was smarter than he lets on. One who writes so prolifically has to have some hidden knowledge.

"That's right," Hunt agrees. It wasn't the content. It was the fax itself. That's when they stumbled upon the idea that if we could take words, pictures, images, and reduce them to data that could be transmitted and then rebuilt – then could we do that with a human body as well? That was the question. So Josef began his search for sympathetic individuals with expertise with DNA research. On his end, Walter began his search in America for expertise with quantum physics.

"WIndholm," Castle whispers.

"Yes, that's how Sandra became involved," Jackson confirms. "Sandra Windholm is . . . was . . . the brightest of the lot, to be sure. Her theories, which were extensions of those of Albert Einstein, proved to be the foundation for the time travel technologies we created."

"So," Castle interrupts, as he attempts to put what he is hearing together. "The CIA wasn't created to be this superspy organization . . ."

"No," Hunt tells him, shaking his head. "Its original goal, its sole purpose was to rid the world – primarily America – of Nazi rule."

"And the plan, the plan the CIA put into action was based upon time travel," Castle continues, "by using research in South America to discover how to break down and recreate a human body at the DNA level, and using research in North America to discover how to open wormholes so that a broken down human body could be sent to another location in space or time."

"Excellent, son," Hunt nods, appreciatively.

"And the two research projects were kept apart – literally geographically – so that no one could ever put two and two together," Kate nods herself, now fully understanding the dual projects.

"Exactly," Hunt replies. "Until 2012, when we finished construction of the Kronologix facility, the only people who knew both sides of the equation were Josef, Walter, Sandra and myself. This was critical. If someone in Peru were captured, they would have no knowledge of what we were doing here in America. And vice versa. Only when the facility here was completed could we bring others into the real plan."

"That's why we are seven floors below," Castle whispers, nodding his head. "It had nothing to do with science, did it?"

"No," his father confirms. "Upstairs is a front. A research think-tank in the outskirts of New York City is nothing that draws attention. But an elevator that can secretly drop seven floors below street level into the real facility – where the actual real technology is housed – yeah, that had to be kept secret. Remember, we weren't in charge. This wasn't our country. And those who were born after 1959 – and this is important for you two to understand – those that were born after 1959, those born in the last fifty plus years – this was their home. This was all they know of. They never had freedom snatched away from them. They never tasted democracy as you know it. They never tasted freedom as you have seen it. This was all they know. So understand, getting people to want something better – believe it or not – was difficult. Because if you were white, and kept your religious beliefs to yourself – well, this was not a bad place to be. Not great, mind you. But not bad."

"How many were in the CIA?" Kate asks.

"One hundred and fifty seven," Hunt replies, and smiles at the blank looks of disbelief which cloud both faces in front of him.

"We couldn't take chances," he says simply. "The fewer who were involved, the better. That's why we had to search for the most brilliant, and we had to be right the first time."

"So what happened?" Kate asks after a few seconds of silence.

"There were four options to go back into time," he tells them, "and it fell upon me to be the one to go. Josef and Walter were too old, and Sandra was too valuable. Of the one hundred and fifty seven, we were broken into three camps: DNA expertise, Quantum Physics expertise, and Safety and Security. I was in the latter group – responsible for collecting intelligence and providing security for anyone in the organization."

"How many were –"

"There were fourteen of us in security," Hunt replies, knowing the question. As he could anticipate, Castle and Beckett burst into laughter.

"The fate of the world protected by fourteen men," Castle chuckles.

"Fourteen men and women," Hunt corrects him. Five of us were from America. The rest, believe it or not, were from Russia. As you can imagine, they weren't too keen on Nazi rule either."

Both Castle and his former muse nod in understanding.

"So, you went back, and did what, exactly," Kate asks, now reaching under the table for Castle's hand. Their fingers interlock, and somehow it gives both comfort during this dramatic explanation.

"I kept Stalin in Moscow," Hunt tells them. "That was my sole job."

There is no pride in his voice. It's a matter-of-fact tone that he uses, and both can tell he is thinking back to that time.

"I appealed to his pride, to his ego, to his desire of leaving a historical legacy to be proud of, which – thankfully – outweighed his ideas of self-preservation. He and I stood at the train station in Moscow – in the rain – on the night of October 16, 1941 for almost an hour while I pleaded with him. He finally agreed. He said he would give it one month. The rest – as they say – is history. In this case, it is the history that _you_ know, that you _learned in your history books_ , that you understand. It's not the history that I grew up with."

"So, he stayed, they fought – and pushed the Germans back," Kate comments, recalling her knowledge of Russian history.

"That one event changed the course of the war," Hunt continues. "Because Hitler lost in Russia, and it was his first defeat. But more importantly, it made everyone – on both sides of the war – rethink things. All of the sudden maybe Hitler wasn't invincible. Maybe defeat for the Allies wasn't a forgone conclusion. Maybe the Nazi victory wasn't a predestined event."

"My God," Castle mutters to himself.

"Some would say 'Thank God'," Hunt chuckles out loud before continuing.

"I went back just over a year ago," Hunt tells them. "In 2012. I went back to 1941 and reset the timeline. So instead of losing the war, we won the war. Instead of being under Nazi rule, we live in a democracy. Instead of a nation of virtually one hundred percent white people – primarily of German descent – we are a diverse country, made up of multiple races, multiple religions. I lived it, Richard. The Jackson Hunt of this timeline – the revised timeline I set – has done wonderful things, and I'm sure horrible things. He's in the CIA that _you_ know. He is your father. In reality – _I_ have no memories of any of that. I have no memories of your mother. Of you as a child. I went back and reset history. And I returned to a world I didn't know – I live in a world totally foreign to me. But it is a world much better than the one I left. My only memories of this timeline begin in 2012. Before that - My memories?"

There is sad, faraway look in Hunt's eyes now, as Castle is only now beginning to understand the monumental weight that this man lives with. And the fear that it could all be undone.

"What I remember," Hunt continues, "are the stories and videos shown to us in schools of the lynchings of black people by people in the South wanting to cozy up to the Nazis. People doing their 'civic duty' to cleanse the nation. I remember the videos and curriculum that taught us about the gassings of millions of blacks, in 1958, to purify the country. I remember being taught about the great exodus of the Jewish people, desperate to leave in 1957 and 1958 and 1959. They left on boats that were blown out of the water, and planes that were shot out of the skies."

There are tears in his eyes as he continues, and unbeknownst to him, Kate and Castle have tightened their grips on one another underneath the table.

"I remember when Hitler's son, Adolf the Second, came to power in 1971," he tells them. "And in 1991 he began to make overtures to invade Africa – and wipe the dark-skinned people off the face of the earth, finishing his father's work. That was the event that began to turn some away in America. That was the event that led to others – a couple of years later – to even think about the idea of overthrowing the tyranny that had taken over the world. Those are my memories, son. Horrible memories. I can never erase them. But now – I look at a world that no longer reminds me, on a nightly basis, of the hell that I lived in. And –"

"Wait a minute," Castle interrupts, quickly standing up as he releases his grip on Kate's hand. "No, no," he continues shaking his head.

"This doesn't flow," Castle continues, thinking like a writer putting a story together. He turns at looks at his father, pointing a finger at him.

"If you went back in time in 2012," Castle begins, "and reset things, then yeah, when you came back, you would have all of your memories of what happened before you left, but you would have no memories of what happened in the new reality. I know this because that is exactly what happened to Kate and I. Twice."

Kate nods her head in agreement, while Hunt only smiles.

"But then Kate and I went back, and we reset our timelines, and somehow its effect has bled over to others. People made different decisions. They turned out differently. So how do you even know about what you did? Why do you seem unaffected?"

"Part of that is because of a failsafe that I built into the technology, without Sandra's knowledge," Hunt replies, "and the other part of it can only be described as pure luck. Which is why I am so pissed at Sandra."

"You killed her," Kate hisses angrily, now remembering the dead woman in the other large room.

"She'll be back," Hunts waves dismissively.

"You said that before," Castle wonders aloud.

"When we get back, she will be alive again," he tells them. I killed her in this timeline. Which will be reset again in a few moments. After you explain to me exactly what you two did during your trip. I should say, trips, plural. I need to know what you did, and why you did it, so I can understand what Sandra was trying to do, although I have a suspicion."

"Hold on a minute," Kate argues. "What do you mean we are going to reset it again?" she asks, fear now clouding her eyes and, for a moment, her judgement.

"We are going to reset everything – as much as we can – back to the timeline I created last year," he tells them. "We have to undo whatever you and Richard did, and hope that time plays out as it should. As it did before you two went and fucked things up. You have created changes you don't understand. Changes we might not even see. Changes that could lead to someone finding out what we have done, what I have done. If that is reversed, then we are all screwed."

"I . . . I can't lose . . ." Kate's mind is slowly shutting down right now, and Castle isn't too far behind, as both begin to count the potential consequences – what they lose. For Castle, it is an easy equation. For Kate, however, it is far more complex.

"You said this was about your mother," Hunt tells her. "Well, trust me, your mother – no one person – not a million people – are worth losing what we have given this country. What we have given the world. And that's something I thought Sandra understood. I'm sorry to see how wrong I was."

"Wait a – "Castle interrupts, now pushing himself back down into his chair. "What do you mean this is something you thought Sandra understood."

A frown forms on Jackson Hunt's face, as does a faraway look. He stands, and pushes his chair under the table, and opens his jacket a bit wider. It's a movement to remind his two guests of the weapon hidden underneath. He starts moving to the edge of the room, toward the door that leads to the transport room.

"Let's go," he tells them both as he answers his son's question. "Somehow, in the new timeline I created, Sandra's mother was killed back in 1999. I knew she had thoughts of using the transport room to go back to 1999, to try and save her mother. What I _don't_ understand is what that has to do with either of you, and why she would send you back."

Castle, for a moment, stops in his tracks, driven both by a shooting pain in his hip as well as the words – actually, the date – that his father has shared with them, as a truly sad and awful theory begins to assemble itself in his mind.

.

 **A/N:** A long and descriptive chapter, I admit. Not to worry, we are almost finished here. A couple more chapters and then the epilogue. Thanks so much for staying the course.


	27. Chapter 27

**Kairos – Chapter 27**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Wednesday Morning – April 30, 2013, 12:15 a.m., at the Kronologix Facility in Brooklyn, New York_**

.

Richard Castle steps through the narrow opening that connects the two rooms – the vast, open demonstration area and the actual transport room – which is through the doorway, literally cut into the rock of the earth. He is two steps behind Kate Beckett, and a couple of steps ahead of the gun-wielding Jackson Hunt, who follows both into the transport room.

"What are you planning to do?" Castle asks, as he slows down only to feel the barrel of Hunt's weapon jabbing him in the back.

"Keep moving," Hunt replies. "Let's get this over with."

"Get this over . . . what, are you going to shoot me, too? Your own son?" Castle asks. His memory of Dr. Windholm is still too fresh. And truth be told, after all the years he has spent shadowing Kate Beckett, he hasn't seen too many headshots like that back there.

"I will if I have to," Hunt tells him, matter-of-factly. "Just make sure I don't have to."

"Look, I don't care what good you think you have done," Kate turns, now having had enough of being pushed around. "What kind of father threatens his own son so easily?"

There is anger in her eyes. Anger over how he is treating Castle. Anger over watching him kill the doctor in cold blood. Anger of what he is now asking them to do.

"You're not listening," Hunt replies solemnly. "My God, you two really don't get it, do you?"

He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, and his laughter sounds like ice cubes rattling down the chute of the refrigerator into the waiting glass. There is no humor, no joy in the laughter, or in the eyes that now are trained on the novelist and his muse.

"Okay," he offers them as he puts the weapon back into the shoulder holster. "I will try this again, and this time I'm going to speak more slowly so that you two can understand me."

He turns to Castle first.

"Richard, I care about you. But I care about only because in the last year I have lived a reality where I am your father. And knowing that I am your father, I have taken an interest in you. I've taken an interest in your books. In your accomplishments. But that is only in the past year – since I came back to the timeline I created. Before that? Listen to me – before that, I have no – zero – not one – memory of you. Zip. Nada. Are you clear on that?"

Castle angrily nods his head in the affirmative, and is about to speak when Hunt raises a hand to silence him.

"In my timeline, Richard – you didn't exist."

He lets that bomb explode in the transport room between the detective-slash-district attorney and his son. He really didn't want to have to tell them this, but they need to know exactly how much is at stake. And up to now, he knows they haven't been 'getting it'.

Now, it appears, they are.

"In my timeline, Richard, I loved one woman," he continued. "I married her. She is the only woman I ever had sex with. And we had two children. You were not one of them. So, Richard – understand – you are literally – in every way possible – a product of this timeline I created. Had I not done this, you would not have existed. Somehow, in creating this new timeline, Beverly and I never married. We never even met."

His eyes are sad, momentarily, before the fire replaces the sadness. His face hardens. His gaze reverts to a penetrating glare as he continues.

"When I reset the timeline, and arrived here, I spent the first month here searching for her, unsuccessfully. She was a nurse, so I checked all of the hospitals. I checked nursing school records. I checked everywhere I could. Then a horrible idea hit me."

He walks toward the computer monitor in the transport room, and enters a couple of parameters. He spends a few seconds gazing at the results, then nods his head before turning his attention back to the pale-and-growing-paler faces that stare at him. It's almost funny.

Almost.

"I realized that if I could not find a Beverly Winston alive in the new timeline, then I should be looking for someone who was dead," he says sadly. "That's how I found her. That's how I found her," he repeats, his eyes glossing over.

"Or rather, that's how I found _her mother_. In this timeline – that I created – Gloria Winston was killed in the Pacific. On one of the islands, in a makeshift hospital that was bombed by the Japanese in 1943. Gloria was killed in 1943, so she never gave birth to my Beverly in 1960. My Beverly was never born. And so my children were never bor. Beverly and I never met. Yet I have thirty years of memories of marriage to a woman who no longer exists."

He turns to gaze at Kate Beckett now, and although there is fear, and there is a bit of hatred, there is something else. Now, there is also understanding in Kate's eyes.

"So you see, Ms. Kate Beckett Bracken," he tells her, spitting her names out almost derisively, "you weren't the only person to lose a loved one because of this reset timeline. It cost me everything. _Everything!_ " he thunders, and Richard Castle takes an unintentional step backwards.

"It cost me my wife who was never born, and my children who were never born! If anyone has a reason to want to go back and try and reset things – with a few changes here and there – it's me! _It's me!_ And I _deserve_ the chance to do that, after what I did! But I realize the danger in going back, in making any change – any change at all – to the new timeline . . . it's just too great."

He stares at Castle for a few seconds, and then drops his gaze to Kate. Both shrink away instinctively. He nods his head, realizing that now they understand.

He turns and waves his hands toward the doorway they just recently walked through, to the large demonstration area.

"So when Sandra back there first mentioned wanting to go back to save her mom . . . trust me, I told her _'absolutely not'_ in so uncertain terms. She lost her mommy. Fine. I lost a hell of a lot more than that. And you know what, Kate! Losing Beverly – my girls – it was worth it, God forgive me! It was worth losing my wife and kids to see this new world! It was worth every fucking nightmare I have at night, missing my wife, missing my girls, missing my friends."

He then turns his attention back to Castle.

"The only reason you are standing here on planet earth is because I reset history. A history which somehow put me in bed with your mother."

He turns to Kate.

"The only reason you two even know each other is because I reset history. And trust me, I don't know if you even existed in the original timeline either, Ms. Beckett. So yeah, whatever changes you two managed to pull . . . well, we are going to un-pull, and pronto! Every minute we spend in this altered timeline is dangerous. So, before we make a return trip back to . . ."

He pauses as he turns and glances at the monitor again, and then turns his attention back to the couple.

". . . Central Park on December 24, 1998 at nine in the morning, I need you two to tell me exactly what you did, so we can figure out what to do to change it back."

For a few seconds neither Castle nor Kate makes a sound, as both stare wordlessly at one another. Hunt lowers his head for a second or two, shaking his head before he begins again.

"Okay, here is how it's going to go down," he tells them, and now there is a chill in his eyes that shakes Richard Castle to his core.

"I'm going to shoot one of you, and take the other back with me to 1998," he tells them. "Now, like the good doctor in the other room," he says, pointing his thumb back to the room they have left, "whichever one I shoot will be alive when we return, but they won't have any memory of what we have just done. Once we reset the timeline, they won't have any memory of this conversation, of being shot. They may or may not even _know_ the other, because as I hope you have learned by now, nothing is set in stone when you mess with time."

He eyes both of them carefully before continuing.

"So I'm going to ask you one more time," he tells them. "What exactly did you do on December 24, 1998 that we need to reverse?"

There are another few seconds of silence, and Hunt begins to reach for his weapon.

"We intercepted a letter," Kate suddenly – and very quietly – tells the older man, as she covers her face with both hands. Her voice is muffled now as emotions threaten to overcome her.

"A letter written by a mobster in prison who wanted my mother to look into his case. When she did, she started a chain reaction that ended with her murder a couple of weeks later."

Jackson Hunt stares at Kate for a few seconds, then nods his head. He glances at Castle – his son in this timeline – and nods toward him as well, in grudging admiration that the man would risk getting shot, and risk losing his knowledge of everything happening here to save the secret of the woman in front of him.

"We figured if she never got the letter, she never looks into the case. She never dies," Castle finally adds, his head hanging sadly.

"Somehow, though, by intercepting the letter," Kate continues, her voice still soft, "we unleashed a series of changes. Mom lived. But Castle's daughter died. And his first wife died. And our best friends died. And the man who ordered my mother's murder ends up being my husband."

Hunt's eyes widen, and his mouth drops open.

"And the father of my child," Kate finishes, staring straight through their captor-slash-host.

Hunt stares at her for a moment before shaking his head.

"And . . . and you were okay with all of this? You were willing to leave all of this as is?" he asks. "All of this was worth . . . all of this was worth _one life_?"

Kate opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Castle attempts to weigh in on her behalf but Hunt waves him off.

"See, this here is _exactly_ why we had to be careful who we brought into this . . . why the original CIA was so small," a now exasperated Jackson Hunt fumes. "There are just too many people on this planet who would damn the entire planet just to get one thing right in their lives," Hunt continues, shaking his head.

Kate is about to say something, but the words – wisely – are stuck in her throat. She is about to tell him that he doesn't understand, that no one can understand. But now, she realizes, that he _does_ , indeed, understand. Better than anyone, he understands. He knows what it is like to have your life ripped out of your hands. He understands what it is like to have the most important person in your life taken away. And in his case – it is threefold.

They are going to go back, and she will likely lose her mother all over again. And she will most likely lose her daughter.

But he's already lost a wife, and two daughters. And no, he isn't okay with this. But he has – very vocally and emotionally – told her that losing them is worth it. It is a sacrifice he is willing to live with.

She thinks about Javier and Kevin . . . and over a thousand other people who were killed in a blast that she and Castle stopped.

She thinks about Kyra Castle lying in bed, making love to Richard Castle, taking her place in his life.

She thinks about eating home-cooked meals with her mother and father . . . and sister.

She thinks about Lanie, her best friend . . . a lonely widow living a day-to-day, grief-filled existence.

"You're finally getting it, aren't you?" Hunts asks. He's been watching her for the past five, ten seconds. Watching her life flash in front of her. Watching her decide, then re-decide, then decide all over again. He recognizes the internal battle waging within Kate Beckett, because he's been there. For the first couple of months after he reset the timeline, it was pretty much a daily battle with himself. Surely there was something – anything – he could do to bring his wife back, to save her mother and make sure she was born. To bring their children back. In the end, he realized that nothing is set – in stone or time. Anything he did would have massive consequences that he wasn't considering.

"Beckett," he calls to her, but she doesn't respond. He calls again, with the same result.

"Kate," Castle finally calls out, softly.

She turns to face Castle, then his father.

"Kate," Hunt says, repeating his son. "Nothing else matters. Nothing. The Nazis were brutal. Seventeen million blacks – horrifically murdered. Over five million Jews slaughtered . . . and that after almost six million were massacred in Europe during the war. Your history books talk about a holocaust. In reality, it was a holocaust times three. And I want you to consider something, Kate . . . Richard," he continues, now turning his attention to his son.

"Can even your imaginative mind imagine, son, what kind of people sit by and watch six million people get slaughtered . . . that was the German public. They knew what was going on. What kind of human being just sits by and allows that to happen? Then cross the ocean, come here to America. And it happens again – not once – but twice! Twice, dammit! And both times, the public just sat by. Sheep. Not wanting to make waves. Sheep, allowing the wolves to feast. No one stood up. No one tried to fight back. Very, very, very few went underground trying to help free people who they knew would be massacred. Only a few tried. Everyone else? They went about their lives . . . thankful it wasn't them. Thankful that their skin color was right. Their religion was right. Their beliefs were right."

His fist are shaking now, as the memories come flooding back to him. Castle only now begins to imagine what this man's nightmares consist of. Massacred human beings, a lost wife, lost children . . . it's almost too much.

Hunt turns his attention back to Kate.

"Everything you know – everything you have experienced – none of it happened. That's what we risk by leaving things as they are. Somewhere out there, because of your little escapade . . . actually because of your _two_ little jaunts through time . . . somewhere out there, there might be a very smart, very ruthless descendant from _my timeline_ who learns that the life he . . . or she . . . is living is a lie. Is a manufactured reality. And they may figure out how to change it back. Just like we did."

She nods her head, tears forming in her eyes. Castle reaches toward her hand, and is relieved when she opens her fingers to take in his.

"So we are going back – right now – and we're going to make sure that your mother gets that letter," he tells her. "Whatever happens from there . . . we can't control. I know that life can play out many different ways. But we must leave life alone, so that it can play out as it is supposed to."

"You say 'we'," Castle notes with surprise. It's the first time he has caught this. "Does that mean you are going back with us?"

"Damn right I am," Hunt tells him. "Two reasons."

He holds up one finger.

"First, I need to make sure that the two of you do – in fact – make sure that Ms. Beckett's mother gets that letter."

He holds up a second finger.

"Second, if I let you go by yourselves, then when you return, my consciousness will be part of the new reset. I will be unaware of what was happening. The timeline resets again, and I'm unaware. At least for a while."

"What do you mean 'for a while'?" Castle wonders aloud.

"That failsafe I told you about," Hunt replies. Every week, every Wednesday, the transport computer is programmed – in any reality – to find me. It has my social security number, my driver's license. It has my email addresses – which of course, could change – and my telephone numbers. Ditto for those. Hell, it has my DNA. But between all of that information, it can find me, and reach out to me."

"Why?" Kate asks.

"To tell me who I really am," he replies. "To remind me of what I did. Of who I was. Of who Josef and Walter and Sandra were. Of who Beverly and Samantha and Veronica were. Just in case something happened, just in case someone did _exactly what you did_. Within another few days, I would have been notified. I would have known. But now, I see that even that was a mistake. I figured once a week would have worked. But hell, you two reset things not once, _but twice_ , before the system could even notify me."

He waves the couple into the actual transport area, and walks back to the counter, and makes a couple of entries.

"What time did you actually intercept the letter?" he yells out, asking the couple.

"It was . . . it was around . . . almost noon time," Castle tells him, thinking back.

"Okay," Hunt replies, punching in new parameters. Suddenly, he jogs back to the transport area, and moves to an area adjacent to the couple, who have knowingly separated, knowing the walls are going to be coming down. Literally.

"Put these on," he tells them, as he throws Castle the first bracelet, and Kate the second. Quickly, the couple puts the bracelets on, glancing at Hunt who does the same with his own bracelet.

"By the way, we're going back to eleven o'clock, not nine o'clock," he tells them. "And we have an hour and a half."

"That's not much time," Castle argues. "What happens if –"

"Your body, you hip, leg, whatever it is – it's already starting to degrade, Richard," Hunt tells him. "We're getting ready to tear you down again. I don't know that you have three, four, five hours in the past on that leg – not after we tear you down again. And then we have to tear you down yet again, to get back. You're going to be in a lot of pain, son," he tells him, and Castle doesn't miss the use of the word 'son'.

"The sooner we get in there and back, the better," he tells Castle. Then he turns to Kate.

"And I don't know what – if anything – has happened to you," Hunt adds, "but this is going to be your third time. I doubt you will get out of this unscathed either. All to say, we all need to be back in 2013 as quickly as possible. We're going to want medical technology to be as advanced as possible. We're going to need that."

Suddenly, a computerized voice is counting down. Castle is screaming to Hunt over the haunting, female computer voice.

"One more question –"

 _Three._

 _Two._

"What was Sandra's mother's name?"

 _One._

Kate Beckett closes her eyes, wincing as she tries to muffle the scream that begins to escape from her lips. A second later, she is nothing more than translucent mist forming an outline of her body. Then her dust falls, like snowflakes floating to the ground. This time, however, Castle isn't watching. He's seen this movie before, and knows how it plays out. And he needs this answer – this one answer – before they go.

Hunt stares at him for a moment, and then they both hear the countdown for Castle.

 _Three._

 _Two._

"Diana Cavanaugh," Hunt yells through the transparent glass barrier that separates the two men.

 _One._

Castle's eyes widen – not in fear, not in pain – but in recognition. He knows that name. It's a name he has stared at on a murder board, many times. Suddenly, he screams as he feels a hard, brutal tub on his left hip – then nothing.

Jackson Hunt stares at the remaining image of his 'son' float to the floor as the final countdown rings in his ears. He closes his eyes, waiting for the jolt of pain he knows is coming.

 _Three._

 _Two._

 _One._

"Dammit," he thinks to himself as he screams aloud for a second. And then he, too, is gone.

.

 **A/N:** So, huge kudos to binkey2013, who back in chapter 21 figured out Sandra Windholm's motivation for sending Kate and Castle back in time. There have been a lot of theories posted in reviews and in PMs (a couple of which I wish I had thought of myself), but binkey2013 nailed it solidly on the head.

One more chapter, and then the epilogue. As always, thanks for reading and sticking around.


	28. Chapter 28

**Kairos – Chapter 28**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 11:00 a.m., just inside Central Park in New York_**

.

His scream is long, it is loud and it is agonizing. It bellows throughout the trees above them, sending a dark chill down Kate Beckett's spine as she watches the man she has grown to love over the years fall to the grass here in the park. He lands awkwardly on his side, which produces another loud, grunt of anguish.

This is more pain than Richard Castle has ever felt, and that includes a previous broken leg, a broken arm and assorted other injuries. There is something about this that is different, however, and right now, he is left gasping for air – unable to even catch his breath as the pain continues to jolt through him. It's as if someone has plugged his hip and leg into a light socket and turned on the juice.

She, of course, is by his side in an instant, kneeling beside him, searching her mind for anything – anything at all – that she can do to help. She places a hand alongside his face, apologizing profusely. She knows that everything he has done in the past few days – and the horrific price he is paying – all of this was done for her.

"I'm so sorry, Castle," she tells him softly, bending to his ear so he can hear her soothing voice, trying to calm him. A wave of guilt washes over her as she sees the look of pain – and fear – on his face.

Finally, Jackson Hunt kneels beside him in the grass as well. His bedside manner, however, is quite different from hers.

"Let's go, soldier," he gruffly orders his son. "We are here on a mission. One last mission. I told you it would be painful."

He reaches down and begins to pick Castle up from the ground. Kate begins to fight against him, wanting Castle to catch his breath. Wanting the pain to go away. Hunt slaps her hand away, startling her with his ferocity.

"He can hurt later," Hunt tells her. "And trust me, he _will_ be hurting a lot worse than this when we go back. But for now, we have a job to do."

He lifts Castle to his feet, ignoring the grunts of pain which are now drawing attention from some of the mid-morning park visitors who walk by, jog by, and find themselves just relaxing on the benches.

"He's fine," Hunt yells toward onlookers. "Just took a fall. If someone can flag us down a cab, we'd be very appreciative."

A younger man in a sweat suit and a Yankees beanie cap takes off toward the entrance to the park, some one hundred or so yards away to wave down a taxi for the trio. Hunt begins to drag Castle in that general direction, with Kate now coming underneath Castle's other shoulder to provide more support.

"Come on Richard," Hunt tells him. "We can't carry you the entire way."

Suddenly, Hunt stops in his tracks, and grabs Castle by the chin. He pulls Castle's face toward his, and gives his son a deep, penetrating gaze. Castle's eyes are clouding, and Hunt can tell he's losing him. He'll be unconscious in another few seconds if he doesn't do something.

He slaps Castle across the face. Hard.

"Richard!" he hisses – not angrily, but aggressively. Kate is ready to intervene but a second gaze of stone from Hunt stops her, open-mouthed. He turns his attention back to Castle.

"Richard," he continues. "I know this hurts. But the pain is in your mind. Focus on my voice. Come back to me, Richard. Focus. The pain is in your mind – not your leg. Focus, son."

Somehow Castle begins to listen to the rough, scraggly voice that urges him forward. He blinks a few times. The pain continues, but his eyes are a bit clearer now.

"Beckett, go make sure we have a cab waiting," Hunt tells her, looking in the direction of the park entrance. "Ask them where the closet pharmacy store is. That's our first stop."

Kate is about to ask a question when Hunt interrupts – he is losing his patience.

"Time is ticking," he tells her. "We have less than ninety minutes, and now we have an additional stop to make!"

She begins jogging toward the entrance, wondering why she hasn't felt a sharp increase in the pain in her chest from this latest reconstruction, as Castle most definitely is. Behind her, Hunt begins moving again, pulling Castle along who – now – is clearly dragging his left leg.

"Almost there, son," Hunt tells him, now using the more personal jargon. When they first arrived, he knew Castle was going to be in bad shape. So he opted for more of a sergeant-soldier role. That didn't work. He immediately saw that had no effect on Castle, so he quickly morphed into a father-son role. This seems to be working better. He finds it odd that Castle would respond to this, knowing that – even in Castle's own words earlier – they had just met only months ago in Castle's timeline.

It takes another two minutes, of slow, deliberate walking and dragging and coercing, but they finally make it to the street curb where, thankfully, Kate is standing next to a cab she has held – acquired by their good Samaritan jogger.

She helps Hunt slide a gasping Richard Castle into the back seat, then slides in next to him. Hunt comes around the other side.

"The closest Duane Reade or Walgreens," she tells the cab driver once Hunt is inside and settled. She turns to Hunt, who is gazing outside the window, now oblivious to both of his passengers.

"So, tell me why we are going to a pharmacy store?" she asks. "I'm guessing you don't just happen to have a powerful painkiller prescription on you."

"A cane, Beckett," Hunts calmly tells her, keeping his gaze on the surroundings outside the window. "Richard isn't going to be able to walk on his own. And I don't know about you, but I'm too old to drag his ass around the city."

His frankness, his complete lack of empathy toward his son is causing a range of reactions within the detective-slash-district attorney. First of all, she doesn't want to be here. She knows that the changes she and Castle made have been dramatic – hell, catastrophic depending upon one's perspective. A Kate Beckett might opt for dramatic. A Lanie Parrish or a Jenny Ryan would definitely pick catastrophic. And Castle? Who knows where he would be leaning? And second, of course – she knows what has to be done here on this trip.

Regardless, she grudgingly has to agree with Hunt. Castle is in no position to walk on his own. He needs help. She reaches over, tightening her grip on Castle's fingers, and she notices that his eyes are clear, now. He's starting straight ahead – likely focusing on the pain, but he is calm and rational.

She's not happy with the pain he is in, mind you, but it is not lost on her that – because of this pain – Castle is in no position to help on this trip. At least not in person. And Kate is good with that. Because she realizes, damning herself as she thinks this, but she knows that if he were the one to make sure the letter gets delivered, she has no idea how she would react when they return.

Would she understand?

Would she forgive him?

Would she hate him?

She knows her tendencies, her history, and everything she knows about herself suggest the latter. She nods her head as she glances at Castle, realizing that the universe has taken that decision out of their hands.

It has to be her. As it should be.

She opens her mouth to speak when Castle turns his head away from her, towards Jackson Hunt who sits next to him, next to the window. He speaks with short bursts, and his breathing is still a bit ragged as he focuses beyond the pain, beyond the next jolt.

"As we were leaving . . ." he gasps, and grabs a quick breath, closing his eyes.

"You mentioned a name . . ." he says between breaths.

"Diane Cavanaugh," Hunt repeats, and with this, Kate's head turns sharply toward Jackson Hunt, craning her neck as her eyes darting between Castle and his father.

Yeah, she recognizes that name, also.

"You're sure?" Castle asks.

"That was Sandra's mother's name," Jackson Hunt confirms, only now recalling the brief question and answer session he and Castle had before their transmission. "Why? You couldn't possibly have known her."

"I didn't," Castle manages between short breaths he is managing to suck in. Kate completes the sentence for him.

"But my mother did," she tells Hunt, her eyes narrowing. It's all starting to fall into place now. With that one name – one simple name – both she and Richard Castle now immediately understand how wickedly they have been played.

"All makes sense now . . ." Castle manages, wincing again has he blinks quickly, pushing the tears away.

"A set up," he says softly, shaking his head.

"What are you talking about?" Hunt asks, and now it is his eyes that are searching back and forth between the couple in the cab with him.

"What do you mean-"

"She played us," Castle tells him. "Like a pro," he gasps, as a single tear makes its way down his right cheek – easily visible to Kate who can only squeeze his hand more tightly.

"She came to visit Castle," Kate takes over, trying to remain calm amid the storm that has exploded inside her chest with this latest revelation. "Pretending to be a fan of his, saying she'd read his last book. A book which – well, now we know it is just an ironic coincidence – but that book had a time travel plot in it."

"Do tell," a slightly more intrigued Jackson Hunt mentions, his eyes narrowing.

"She told him that his ideas on time travel were actually plausible, actually close to reality, something along those lines," and with those words, she sees the entire demeanor of Jackson Hunt change. She realizes that she has – in fact – with those words, proven every one of his fears to be totally sound. Which he does not hesitate to remind her.

"A simple writer – no offence –" he turns and tells his son before turning back and focusing his words to Kate. "- a mystery author writes a time travel story that is realistic and plausible – this according to the _one person_ on the _planet_ who actually would know, who actually designed a working time travel operation . . . and you wonder why I'm concerned someone else might discover this . . ."

He shakes his head. He knows what he is going to have to do. It's the only way. He puts those thoughts out of his mind. For now. He turns his attention back to Kate.

"So Sandra visits Richard . . . and?"

"Long story short, Richard and I look her up and go to visit her, to ask more questions. She was good. All this time she wanted us to go back and save _her_ mother. But she made us think it was our idea – and she made it sound like an investment opportunity for Richard . . . when in fact it was her way of getting us to save _my_ mother."

"Okay, you've lost me –" Hunt tells them, before Castle interrupts.

"Diane Cavanaugh," Castle repeats. "Her mother."

"She worked with my mother," Kate tells him. "They were attorneys together. Joe Pulgatti sent –"

"Joe who?" Hunt asks.

"Joe Pulgatti," Kate replies. "The mobster who was in prison, who sent the letter to my mother that started all of this."

Hunt nods his head, glancing ahead at the cab driver who quickly averts his eyes. Yeah, he's going to have to deal with this guy also.

"My mother," Kate continues, "received Pulgatti's letter, and took his case. She had a few co-workers working with her on the case. Not only was Mom killed, but so were three other people. Diane Cavanaugh was one of them. She was killed a couple of months after Mom. The killer, Dick Coonan, spread the murders out to make them appear unrelated. It was originally written off by the NYPD as gang violence. Random killings. It wasn't until years later – over a decade later – that Castle and I found the real killer. And the man he answered to."

Hunt nods his head, gazing at his son who is struggling again. He surprises both of them by taking Castle's free hand, and giving it a squeeze. At least, if nothing else, Kate has answered the question that was vexing him – and that was why Sandra would use them – Castle and Beckett – in her attempts to change the past.

"So, if your mom never receives the letter, then she never takes the case. She is never killed," Hunt muses aloud. "And if she doesn't take the case, if she is never killed, then there is no reason for Sandra's mother to be killed," he continues. He stares between the two once again.

"So Windholm approaches me . . ." Castle winces, pushing another wave of pain behind him as best he can. Talking is hard, but it actually helps. Thinking of something other than the electricity jolting his body helps.

". . . in order to get to Kate," Castle continues.

"Knowing that we work together . . . that is common knowledge," Kate agrees.

"So the final question," Hunts asks, and he once again places his gaze outside at the scenery passing by as the cab weaves throughout traffic.

"My final question, "he repeats, "is simply this: How in the world would Sandra know that your mother's murder was linked to _her_ mother's murder? Remember, Sandra – like me – was a timeline transplant. She has no memory of what happened here prior to 2012. So how would she even know that her mother's murder was linked to your mother's murder?"

"I don't know," Kate replies honestly. "Perhaps during her own personal investigation, she saw that her mother worked with mine, and then noticed that my mother, along with another co-worker of theirs, they were killed all within a few months. To be honest, now that you think about it like that, how in the hell did the NYPD not see that linkage between all three of them?"

"They didn't want to," Castle replies, softly and breathlessly as the cab pulls over to the curb. Castle looks out the window to see the Duane Reade convenience and pharmacy store.

"We're here," he tells his companions.

"Ms. Beckett?" Hunt requests. "Please step out and get Richard here a cane."

Kate looks at his, surprised by his request.

"I figured we would all get out and –"

"Richard needs to walk as little as possible right now," Hunt interrupts, "and believe me, I am not so stupid as to go in there myself, and leave the two of you alone."

.

 ** _Thursday Morning – December 24, 1998, 11:42 a.m., outside The Beckett Law Firm, P.L.L.C. in Queens_**

.

Kate Beckett stands a few feet to the right of the front door leading into the small, quaint two-story building where her mother works. Inside, she knows, is Richard Castle. Not the Richard Castle that is sitting in the taxicab, just down the block. No, inside the building is the Richard Castle who – just a few days ago – made that first trip back to 1998 with her. He's inside waiting for the mail – and a certain letter – to be delivered . . . waiting to intercept the letter that changed her life. He can't get too close to the Richard Castle who is also visiting this timeline.

"Let's go," Jackson Hunt tells her. He stands next to her, and he understands her hesitation, although he suspects that 'his son' inside the building won't struggle so much with the reality of speaking to Kate, even though Kate is supposed to be at the library waiting for him. And he won't struggle with understanding why he – Jackson Hunt – is here. After all, the only reason he is here is because of time travel himself.

"Just remember, play nice with him," Kate offers in a warning tone. "He has no memory of you from the past twenty four hours. All he knows of you is that you saved his daughter – saved him – a couple of months ago in Paris."

"I've got this, Kate," Huint tells her, throwing her slightly off her game by using her first name.

He opens the door for her, watching her as she walks in. Both brush off the snow that has lightly dusted their clothes. He is amused by the look of surprise on Richard Castle's face as Castle sees Kate walking in. She's supposed to be back at the library, as far as he knows. Hunt loses his battle to stifle a laugh, however, when he sees the look of utter confusion on Castle's face when he sees his father walking in behind Kate.

"I know this is weird," Kate begins, with her hands up in the air as an apology, "and that's saying something, seeing how you and I pretty much _define_ weird . . . but it's _me_ , Castle. Not the 'me' that is sitting at the library right now waiting for you. She's still there. This is the me – who just made –"

"Oh for crying out loud," Hunts moans, _stepping_ in front of Kate, and now addressing Castle.

"Son, let me cut to the chase," he begins. "You can't intercept the letter. The changes in history that happen because of what you are getting ready to do are enormous – and not very pleasant, by the way. "This," he points to Kate, "is a version of Kate that lives after the second of your trips back to the past."

Castle is blinking now, staring between his father and the woman he loves. Surprisingly to Kate, but pretty much as Hunt suspected, Castle isn't recoiling in horror. He isn't rejecting this outright, as she would likely do. Instead, he is putting this together pretty quickly.

"You're from the future?" he asks.

"I told you he'd get it," Hunt tells Kate. He then turns his attention back to Castle to answer his question.

"One of the futures," his father replies. "Problem is, this here isn't your only trip to the past."

"We came back a second time, Castle," Kate tells him, finding her path with words once again. "Because of what you and I did on _this_ trip – what you are getting ready to do – so much went wrong. Mom lived. But Alexis died. Meredith died. Javier and Kevin died. We went back a second time, trying to fix things, but only made things worse . . . in some ways. Right now, my version of you is sitting in a cab down the block. You . . . he can barely walk. The reconstruction process has been horrible for you. For him. Shit this is confusing."

"The reason we are standing here in front of you, son," Hunt continues, taking over, "is to tell you that you have to leave. Right now. You have to get out of here. Let time play out. Go tell Kate what is happening. Now, if I know Kate, and if she is anything like the woman standing next to me, she isn't going to believe you. She's going to insist you come back here and get that letter, come hell or high water –"

"You know her pretty well," Castle muses aloud, much to the chagrin of the Kate standing in front of him. But can she really blame him?

"So take out your phone, Castle," Kate tells him, pointing to his jacket. "Your phone doesn't work here. But your camera does."

This is the plan she, Hunt and her Castle have come up with in the back seat of the taxi. Hunt told them that Castle would believe them. Kate told them that the version of Kate currently waiting for Castle in this timeline would not. She would need proof. More than anything else, she is a cop, and she's going to need proof. This is going to be the proof she will need.

"Shoot a video of your father and me standing here," Kate continues. "We will talk to me . . . we will talk to her," she corrects herself, shaking her head. "I will believe . . . _she_ will believe what she sees on your phone."

"You do know how cool this is, don't you?" Castle exclaims, his eyes dancing. "You're telling me that I am sitting in a cab down the block . . . and I'm also somewhere else right now, much younger . . . and I am standing here with you right now. There are three versions of me here in New York. And there are three of you, too, Kate?"

Of course his mind would react like the ten-year old on a sugar rush now.

"Your phone camera, Richard," Hunt reminds him. "We're running out of time. The 'you' in the cab told us that the mail lady will be here any moment now."

Castle stares at the couple for a second, and then takes out his phone. He puts it into video capture mode, and presses the red RECORD icon.

"Trust me, Castle, this is not fun and games," she tells him, knowing he is recording. "There is so much more at stake than . . . than my mother living or dying. And I know that sounds crazy, hearing that from me. But if you do this – if we do this – Alexis dies. Meredith dies. Espo and Ryan die. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. Your father and I – and you – we all came back to this point in time to stop you and me – you and Kate – dammit, you know what I mean. We came back to stop you, and reset things back the way they are supposed to be."

Kate – up to this point – has been looking at Castle, not the camera. Now she turns her focus to the camera. She has a message to deliver directly to herself.

"Kate – I know this is weird," she says, looking directly into the camera phone, "But trust me. You can't do this. This is life and death on a massive, massive scale. Before Castle and I came back the first time, we talked about ripples. We talked about them with Dr. Windholm. We talked about them with Kevin, and Javier. We should have listened. It is sheer luck that we even have the chance to come back again – and try to set this right. Please, I am begging you. You still have hours here, I know. I know you won't want to believe Castle when he shows this to you. I am begging you – believe him. Let . . . let . . ."

The tears in her eyes are real. They don't fall, as she struggles to contain them. She stares fiercely at the camera.

"Let mom go. She is . . . she is where she is supposed to be."

She stops talking, she simply looks down at the floor. She is mumbling to herself.

"Forgive me, Mom," she whispers.

It's enough for the Richard Castle standing in front of her, who stops recording. He slowly moves toward her, and stops in front of her, reaching out but stopping just short of touching her. It's almost as if he is afraid to touch a ghost.

"It's me, Rick," she whispers, and he pulls her into a tight embrace. He smells her hair, her neck. It smells like her. It sounds like her. It looks like her. And Mr. Creepy next to her is everything he remembers his father to be back in France.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice low, as the three turn their heads toward the front door that has just opened. The delivery person walks in, shaking the snow off of her coat and legs. She stares at the trio that stare back at her with blank expressions.

"Can I help you?" the woman asks them. For a few seconds, no one replies. Finally, Castle waves a hand.

"Hi there," he says simply, "and no. We were just leaving."

With that, the trio head to the door, stepping outside. Once outside, Castle grabs Kate's hand, and places his other hand on Hunt's shoulder. He glances up the street, then turns his head in the other direction.

"You're right over there, down the block, yellow cab on the curb," she tells him, knowing who he is looking for. He stares at the cab for a few seconds, and for a brief instant, doubt creeps in. At the same time, he sees the door open. A tall man is barely able to pull himself out. He is supported by a cane.

"That's . . . that's me?" he asks, a look of concern now painting itself across his face.

"Yeah, babe," Kate tells him. "You're not in good shape. This – for you . . . for him," she says, pointing to the figure down the road, "for him, this is the third trip. It has played hell with your . . . his hip."

"Damn," he mutters, as he had felt a slight bit of pain earlier when he arrived. Just a bit. But now to know that he has actually made three trips – and each trip has made him worse – and why in the hell did they have to come back a second time again?

Alexis!

Nothing else is said. Nothing else needs to be said.

"I'll take care of it," he tells the duo, and turns and walks in the opposite direction, looking to flag down a cab. He turns one last time, some twenty steps away, to look back at Kate.

"I will see you again?" he asks.

"I will be waiting," she tells him. "Always."

He smiles, turns, and walks further down the block before hailing a cab. She watches him until the cab is out of sight.

"Think he will be able to convince her . . . you?" Hunt asks her.

"Yeah," Kate replies softly. "He will convince me."

.

 ** _Wednesday Morning – April 30, 2013, 12:33 a.m., Back at the Kronologix Facility in Brooklyn, NY_**

.

Richard Castle lets out one, long, anguished bloodcurdling scream before unconsciousness overtakes him and he falls to floor of the transport room. It is a huge mercy from the heavens, as Kate Beckett looks down in horror at the man she loves. From the waist up, he looks normal, save the look of complete pain that paints his face with horrific features. From the waist down . . . well, that's another story altogether. A horror story that has come jumping off the pages, now come to life.

His lower half is damn near a caricature of the human body. His hip is . . . well, displaced seems to be the only word that makes sense. It isn't lining up with the rest of his body. It's as if someone has cut his hip away from his body and placed it back on – but missed by an inch or two.

His left leg hangs limp on the floor, while his right writhes in agony. At least it was until he passed out.

"No way he's going to be able to walk," Jackson Hunt notices, and immediately takes out his phone. He punches a contact – Kate thought he was going to call 911. It appears, however, that Hunt has other plans.

"I need an extraction," he begins talking into his phone. "Cod dash Delta Delta Bravo, at the location being transmitted."

He hangs up the phone, to look back at his son when he notices Kate also fumbling with her chest.

"Are you going to be all right?" he asks. "What's happening with you?"

"I'm fine," she tells him. He doesn't believe her. He decides, then and there, that when the chopper arrives, she is getting on it also, come hell or high water.

"Come on," he tells her, "Help me get him out of here and upstairs. And don't worry about being gentle. He can't feel it right now," he tells her as he picks him up roughly by the shoulders. Kate grabs his legs. Together they begin moving Castle out of the transport room where they have just arrived.

They pass through the doorway, into the large demonstration facility. They are on the platform, moving quickly.

"Watch the stairs coming up, right behind you," he reminds her. Kate glances back at the stairs, and begins stepping down. A few seconds later, they are walking briskly towards the elevator – Castle in tow – when Kate notices.

"Where is Dr. Windholm?" she asks aloud, a bit of alarm in her voice. The doctor, who was bleeding out not one minute ago on the floor here, is gone.

"I told you, she would be alive and well when we returned," he tells her. "But since she wasn't in the transport room when we left – she will have no memory of what happened. She could be at her house, or sailing on the Atlantic for all I know. She is wherever she is supposed to be in this timeline."

He sees the look of confusion on her face.

"Later, Beckett," he tells her. "It will all make sense later. For now, just understand that if she had been in the transport room, she would have physically been kept there during our trip. Proximity to the machine does that. Her memories would change, but her physical form is kept intact. Since she wasn't in the transport room, that didn't happen. Now keep moving, I've got help on the way."

Thirty minutes later, Hunt, Kate and Castle are airborne, in the military chopper that banks hard to the left, heading north.

"Must be going to the Connecticut location," Hunt muses aloud, just under his breath. He gazes at Kate Beckett, who stares at a now heavily-medicated Richard Castle. Her fingers brush his hair from his face. His hair is damp with sweat, his face clammy. She blinks away the tears as she gazes down at his unconscious face – a face that finally is devoid of any pain. He looks peaceful.

She considers all that has happened in the past few days – and that's when it hits her.

It's only been a few days!

It seems like a lifetime, but it's only been a few days. So much has happened. So much has been shown to them. She feels as if she has had a lifetime of classroom education on life, on valuing life, on appreciating life – in just the past few days. She glances out the window at the landscape flying by below them. She – and Castle – they have been given a glimpse of how things could be different. Different because of one decision. Some of those differences have been wonderful. Others have been horrific.

In the end – and she now is beginning to see this as a blessing – but in the end, the choice as to what to do has been taken away from them. The choice of whether to stay in that last timeline with Madison, with Bracken, with Kyra – or to try to return 'home' was taken away from them. The idea that she considers their original timeline – this new timeline now – as 'home' isn't lost on her.

Yeah, the choice was taken away – but the lesson remains.

There is so much she and Castle can do differently now – if they so choose. They have been given a second chance. She gazes down at his face, lovingly, once again. She allows her gaze to drop toward his legs, which are wrapped together now. That's when the tears flow. This has cost him so much. So much.

For a few seconds, she rubs and scratches at her chest. It itches now – just under the surface. She suspects it is more scar tissue than anything. She wonders why a chest – her chest – that has undergone extensive heart surgery has fared far better than Castle's lower extremities.

"He'll be fine, Beckett," Hunt says to her, loudly over the engines and blades as he interrupts her musings.

"I hope so," she tells him softly. He can't hear her words with all the noise inside the chopper. But her sentiment is evident.

"It's not your fault," he tells her. She glances up, glaring at him for an instant.

"He did what he felt he had to do," Hunt tells her. "I suspect that is who he is . . . because it is who I am."

She gazes at him for a few seconds, and simply nods her head. Perhaps he and his father are more alike than she realizes. Castle didn't exist in Hunt's original timeline, but he is his son, by blood, in this reality. And like Hunt has done what he felt he must, his son is no different.

She shakes the thoughts away, now staring out at the dark waters of the Atlantic, below to her right. The moon is casting an eerie glow on the waters that ripple below. She tightens her grip on the hands of the unconscious man lying next to her with her left hand. Her right hand holds her iPhone, while her thumb nervously types, as she googles the familiar search parameters that have defined the latter decade and a half of her life.

Her lips purse, and her head nods as she skims the results, before tossing her phone on the seat beside her, and she refocuses her attention on the unconscious form of Richard Castle.

 _Johanna Beckett, born February 4, 1951, died January 9, 1999_

.

 **A/N:** Epilogue next. Thank you for reading. This one has been fun for me.


	29. Chapter 29

**Kairos – Chapter 29**

 **EPILOGUE**

 **.**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine.

.

 ** _Thursday Morning – May 1, 2013, 11:23 a.m., At an undisclosed medical facility in Connecticut_**

.

She feels him. She feels a twitch in his fingers. Fingers that she has been holding on to now for hours as they both slept. His twitching immediately awakens her, and she slowly stands, careful not to release her hold on his hand. She stretches as much as she can, wiggling her hips, her legs and bending her back. Anything to get the blood flowing again and get rid of the stiffness.

Slowly, she sits back again, in the large chair that the staff had moved next to his bed once he came out of surgery all those hours ago. She watches him intently as his mouth begins to move, and his eyes flutter. His grip on her hand tightens, then releases as his head falls to the side, facing away from her. His head swings back toward her, and he begins to blink, trying desperately to awaken. Tightening his fingers around hers, his left eye manages to open for a second or two before shutting again.

With her free hand, she reaches over to hit the red button that hangs on a cord alongside his bed, calling the staff for help. She wants the floor staff to know he is coming around. His surgery, which began yesterday at 11:45 in the morning, lasted almost fifteen hours. Far longer than expected, but, then again – what they found in the X-rays prepared the surgeons for the battle ahead.

X-rays showed that his left hip was – in fact – displaced off-center by a full two inches, and his femur bone had been fractured. Fractured being a nice term, as the stability of the primary bone in his left leg was severely compromised. Hip replacement was required, and extensive surgery to the leg which includes a long rod down the center of the femur, and antibiotics to fight the infection. While inside his leg, surgeons made the decision to forego any work on his left knee, which may require surgery in the future.

They had rolled him back into the intensive care at the covert facility just after three o'clock this morning.

 _"He's got enough medication running through him to keep a horse out for half a day,"_ the surgeon had joked to Kate when he came to speak with her around six this morning. _"I know you've been sterilized, so you can stay . . . but get some sleep. He's going to be out for hours, and when he wakes up, he's going to want to see a familiar face."_

He moans softly – not so much from pain as it is confusion. He's riddled with pain medications, and the doctors have promised that he will be comfortable for the next day or two before they start weaning him, before the meds start wearing off. Normally they would want him up and at it – but with injuries this extensive they aren't taking chances.

A tall male nurse walks in and stands alongside the sitting Kate.

"Waking up, I see," he offers in a deep voice, as he begins a routine of checking fluid lines, checking output displays on the monitors, and an inspection of the patient. A patient who is slowly regaining consciousness.

It takes another minute or so before any recognition in Castle's eyes even register the woman that sits next to him, holding his hand.

"Hey," he offers with a weak whisper.

"Hey yourself," she returns, now overcome with emotion, as tears erupt from her eyes and her voice breaks.

"I look that bad?" he asks, trying to smile.

"I'm sure you've looked better," the tall nurse remarks, with a chuckle. "But we will have you up in no time. How are you feeling Mr. Castle?"

"Been better," Castle offers.

He moves his tongue around the top of his mouth, and makes a face. To Kate, it's like he is a small child, being reduced to faces and grunts. Only the painful grunts have subsided, thankfully.

"Did we get him?" Castle asks.

"Get who?" Kate replies, now frightened of what he may be thinking.

"Whatever truck ran me over," he muses as he falls back into unconsciousness. It brings a smile of relief to her face.

"There's my Castle," she remarks, standing and leaning over him to place a soft kiss on his lips.

.

 ** _Thursday Afternoon – May 1, 2013, 1:07 p.m., Still at the undisclosed medical facility in Connecticut_**

.

Greg raises the bed ever so slightly so that Castle is a little more elevated than before. The tall nurse has taken a liking to the quick-witted writer, even in his discombobulated state.

"So, skiing accident, I hear," the nurse rumbles, as he walks around the bed, inspecting things.

"So they told me," Castle chuckles, and the two men laugh. Their laughter rouses Kate, who had fallen back asleep along with Castle roughly an hour and a half ago.

"Sleeping beauty awakens," Greg comments.

"I've been awake for the last ten, fifteen minutes, man," Castle banters back, and the two men chuckle again.

"Do I need to get you two a room or something," Kate muses half-heartedly.

"Uh . . . Beckett, I think I already have a room," Castle quips back. His speech is still slightly slurred, but his mind is in overdrive now. It's as if his brain is rejecting being under anesthesia for over half a day and is working overtime to catch up. And right now, he only has one question for his partner.

"Is . . . is she . . ."

He can't even ask the question. Fortunately, he doesn't have to. She knows where he is going with this. She merely nods her head, silently.

"I'm so sorry, Kate," he tells her, but she quickly puts a finger to his lips.

"Don't be," she tells him. "We tried to play God. And look at the price you are paying now."

He doesn't say anything. She's right, after all. This is what happens when mortals mistakenly believe they are God. He simply nods and turns his head away from her for a moment. The silence, after a few seconds, blows louder than thunder.

"And with that, I will leave you two to yourselves," Greg mutters, as he walks out of the room, offering a wave to Castle.

"How badly does it hurt?" she asks him.

"Not too much, unbelievably," he tells her, turning his head to face her once more.

"I'm so sorry, Rick. This is all my fault. I should have stopped us from –"

"If memory serves," he interrupts, "I do believe that is exactly what you tried to do the first time. It was me who wasn't listening."

"I know, but –"

"No buts, Kate," he tells her. "Well, except for yours of course. And in that case . . ."

He lets a short eye-wiggle bring a smile to her face. It doesn't stay there long.

"Regardless, this is what we do," she tells him. "Somehow, my quests become your quests. And you're the one who ends up paying the price. This has to stop."

"What does?" he asks. It would be just like her to bail on him now. Surely she wouldn't go there. Would she?

"All of this," she tells him. "You and I poking and digging into dark things. Things buried that need to stay buried. Shit, being a cop is dangerous enough without what I have us doing."

"Kate, I –"

"Let me finish," she tells him. "When we first met, that first year we worked together. When you first learned of my mother's case and starting asking me about it. What did I tell you _then_ , Castle? I told you it took me a year of therapy to get to the point where I realized if I didn't let that case go, it would destroy me. But over the years, you or I would bring it up – or something new would pop up – but the result was always the same. Someone destroyed. Something destroyed."

"But we found out who ordered –"

"But look at the r _esult_ ," she interrupts, pointing to his hip area. "Look at you, Rick! I can never live this down. I can never forgive myself for this. One of us is going to get killed over this . . . and more and more it looks like it's going to be you. Roy's already dead. Everyone who touches this case dies. And the fact that we're still here doesn't mean we're okay. It doesn't mean we're out of the woods. It only means it hasn't hit us yet. _Yet!_ But it will."

She stands up, stretching, and walks away from him, as Jackson Hunt enters the room. Both of their eyes move toward the man, who simply nods his head toward Kate as he walks toward the bed.

"How are you doing?" he asks Castle, his voice soft and polite. It's a new look on him.

"Looks like I'm going to be getting a lot of rest," Castle replies.

"Take advantage of it," he warns. "The getting-better part won't be fun. And the PT's here aren't known for their kindness."

"I'll file that one away," Castle tells him. "So . . . is it over? Is everything . . . as it is supposed to be?"

"It's almost over," Hunt replies. "And yes, everything is as it should be . . . as it is supposed to be. Or at least it will be shortly," he adds, glancing at his watch.

"Alexis is alive, Meredith is alive, Kevin and Javi are fine," Kate tells him. "Neither of us are married, and Gates knows we are an item."

Castle nods his head quietly.

"So . . . back to normal, eh?" he offers.

"Normal? What's that?" Kate laughs, and it is a laugh devoid of humor.

"Never again," she tells him, and she doesn't see the smile of satisfaction that momentarily passes along the face of Jackson Hunt.

"Dr. Windholm was in custody," Hunt tells the duo, who offer looks of surprise. "Oh, she's not under arrest or anything. We let her go. She and I just had to have one final conversation. I needed to explain to her, in no uncertain terms, the price she will pay if she tries any more stunts like this."

Neither Castle nor Kate need further explanations regrading what 'the price she will pay' could mean.

"So, one question," Kate asks. "Why us? I mean, why wouldn't Sandra just use the machine herself to go back and save her mother? Why even pull Castle and I into this?"

"She tried," Hunt remarks, as he recalls the conversation he has just had with the renowned physicist in the past few hours.

"You were right," he continues. "Her mother, Diane Cavanaugh, worked with your mother, Detective."

Castle smiles softly as he hears the term – the title – he has always known Kate Beckett by, being used by his father. It's familiar. It's comforting. It tells him they are home.

"And you were right, her mother was killed after your mother was murdered. Sandra would have gone back herself, tried something herself – but she was diagnosed last year with cancer. Went through the chemo treatments, and seems to be in remission. But she didn't want to chance the whole reconstruction process, not with her cellular damage."

Both Castle and Kate nod their heads in understanding as Hunt continues.

"Still, though, she had worked with me to reset the timeline with the Russian victory in Moscow, which turned the war. Without that, Germany won. You know the rest. Germany took over America, Japan took over the Hawaiian Islands and the Philippines. Mass genocide, multiple holocausts. All of that changed. Sandra figured the life of her mother – the life of one person – was her reward for building the technology that saved America and Western Europe. As a rationale human being, I can't say I blamed her. Can't say I disagreed with her. As a soldier, though, that was unacceptable."

He moves to the large window away from Castle's bed, and faces the outside.

"Rodney, her husband, agreed with her," he continues. "She sent Rodney back to April 1999 to change history. To save her mother. But Rodney, like Sandra, was a scientist, not a soldier. So when he goes back to April 1999 and is standing in an alley with a killer with a knife – and he is all that is standing between that killer and Diane Cavanaugh . . . well, how do you think that one turned out?" he asks, sadly.

Once again, Kate and Castle nod their heads as one. Yeah, that one is predictable. A scientist lands in the middle of an alley face to face with a knife-wielding Dick Coonan. That one hand to end badly.

"The bracelet brought him back," Hunt continues the story. "But not in time. He returned with a couple of stab wounds, courtesy of Sandra's mother's killer. He died on the floor of the transport room upon his return."

He turns away from the window, and now faces Castle.

"So, now because of the timeline change I made – because we changed the outcome the war, the result is Sandra loses both her mother _and_ her husband. Now, I'm an asshole, but even _I_ have to admit, that's a pretty steep price for anyone to pay. So . . . in Sandra's mind, sending you and the detective back was her only chance – her only chance now not only to bring back her mother, but to bring back her husband as well."

The trio is quiet for a moment before Kate asks the question that both she and Castle are wondering.

"So . . . what happens now?"

"It all will be taken care of shortly," he tells them, and walks toward the door. "I'll be back later tonight, Richard. I'm glad they were able to help you."

He opens the door and takes one step out before turning back to the couple.

"Watch the news tonight."

With that, Jackson Hunt leaves the room, leaving the couple alone with their thoughts, their fears, their regrets. He leaves the door open.

"When we get out of here," Castle begins, "we need to shut Kronologix down."

"Something tells me," Kate tells him as she glances back toward the door, "that won't be necessary."

He gazes at her, then the door, and then nods his head.

"I've been thinking. I have a lot of time to do that, you know," Castle tells her. "It does make you wonder . . ."

Castle looks at her, gazing into her eyes, searching. He closes his eyes momentarily, taking a deep breath before continuing.

"I think of all of the massive changes that one single trip produced," he begins. "One trip changed the world. Changed the outcome of an entire world war. Saved millions and millions of lives. A separate trip killed a husband, widowing a wonderful woman. And another trip saved one mother, but killed a wife and daughter. Killed two great friends, and a thousand innocent people. Still another trip gave you a daughter, gave both of us new spouses, new careers . . ."

"What are you getting at, Castle," she asks nervously. She has no idea where he could possibly be going with this.

"Maybe it's because I'm a writer," he tells her. "Maybe it's just my fertile imagination. Hell, maybe it's just the drugs. But think about it, Kate. What if . . ."

He pauses for a minute, staring at her. Her eyes question him to continue.

"Kate, what if – and go with me on this – what if the only reason your mother died is because someone went back in time – after my father reset history – and did something. What if – in the past month, someone went back in time and altered reality, so that your mom felt compelled to take on Pulgatti's case. We would never know it happened. We'd just be living that reality. Think about it, babe," he asks, as he sees the horror in her eyes.

"Think about this," he continues. "Your mom fought for the little guy, the common person. The disenfranchised. That's _not_ Joe Pulgatti! He was a hardened, known criminal. Not her usual case. A mobster with a rap sheet as long as your leg."

He pauses to catch his breath . . . and his thoughts. He really wants to sleep, but he's been sleeping long enough.

"Why in the hell would your mother ever agree to take his case?! It's all wrong. It's not the type of case she took. And I _know_ this, Kate, because I have looked! I've researched your mother, I've studied her file long enough. His was the first case like this she ever took. And you want to know what else I learned? A couple of years ago – when I first looked into this . . . when I was trying to solve her murder behind your back?"

He sees the look she gives him, and ignores it. He needs to say this. He has kept this hidden long enough. No more secrets.

"I got my hands on old letters inside her firm. Old emails. No one in your mom's little firm was in favor of her doing this, Kate. I even found one letter – obviously written in frustration – begging her not to take this case. I found frustrated employees, telling her that this wasn't like her!"

He watches her wide-eyed expression, and for a brief moment he wonders why she – a successful detective, didn't discover this herself.

"I just chalked it up to her goodness showing through," he continues, but then raises a shaking hand, pointing it at her face.

"But what if that wasn't it," he asks. "What if someone returned to the past, and caused her to take the case?"

"You don't know that Castle," Kate argues, her voice shaking now.

"That's right," he admits. "I don't know. But neither do you! Do you think that Jenny has any fucking idea that her husband was never supposed to die in the timeline we created? That he wasn't even supposed to be there when that bomb exploded? And Lanie? Do you think she knew that Javier wasn't supposed to be at the bomb site?! None of us know, Kate! That's the point. We're not supposed to know. But I do know this much. The reality that you and I know – that we've lived for the past decades – who knows if that's really the way it was supposed to be?!"

She is quiet, and he is tired – he is exhausted from his soliloquy. His head falls back into the pillow. His body relaxes. She grabs his hand, and brings it to her lips, kissing his fingers.

Outside his room, a silent Jackson Hunt nods his head, his lips pursed, once again amazed at the intuition of the injured man – his son – lying in the room behind him. He pushes himself away from the door, and walks down the hallway toward the elevators.

Back in the room a very tired Castle retracts his hand from Kate, and places it under the covers, where he follows along his leg.

"I don't know what it all means, Kate," he tells her, his voice weary. "But what I _do_ know is that this is our reality. It may have been manufactured. It may not. But this is the one reality – the one timeline – where I know you and I ended up together. There's a reality where I don't exist. Another where I am a widower. Another where I am married to . . . another woman. This is the one reality where I am with you. That's enough for me."

She squeezes his hand, as she sees his eyes cloud. He will be unconscious in seconds, she knows.

"I hope it's enough for you, too," he whispers, as sleep overtakes him.

"It is, babe," she replies, tears falling freely. "Believe me, it is."

.

 ** _Thursday Evening – May 1, 2013, 11:01 p.m., Still at an undisclosed medical facility in Connecticut_**

.

Richard Castle is wide awake now. Kate is still sitting beside him, dozing off. Jackson Hunt sits on the other side of his bed as the late news comes on. Hunt reaches for the main remote controller, and turns the volume up.

"You're going to want to wake her for this, Richard," he tells him,

Castle turns his head, and whispers to his muse, his partner.

"Kate," he calls out softly, but there is no reply.

"Beckett!" he almost yells – he still doesn't' have the strength for that – but it awakens her. She wakes with a start, looking around quickly.

"What is it, Rick?" she asks, wiping her eyes.

"You'll want to see this, Detective," Hunt calls across the bed. She glances at him, then glances up toward the television hanging from the wall.

 _"We open our broadcast tonight, with a bit of a local mystery right out of a movie script,"_ the blonde-haired newscaster reports _. "City ambulatory services were called this evening, responding to an unknown 911 call concerning an explosion in southwest Brooklyn this evening. An old warehouse building was leveled by the explosion, although as you can see from the video taken at the scene – there is no evidence of a traditional explosion. In fact, witnesses interviewed at the scene who were passing by the facility at the time swear that portions of the building simply . . . and I am using their words . . . imploded. Ramona Vasquez is on site in Brooklyn."_

The scene shifts to a witness to the event, who is being interviewed on site.

 _"This is Ramona Vasquez, on location live at an old abandoned warehouse here in Brooklyn, and yes, I promise our viewers, this used to be a four story warehouse building. Now – well, we aren't sure what it is, but Mr. Robert Hamilton here was passing by at the time. Mr. Hamilton, what can you tell us?"_

 _"Well, I can tell you it was the damn craziest thing I've ever seen, Ramona,"_ Hamilton replies, now staring into the camera _. "All I can tell you is that this was something out of a movie, I tell ya. The damn building just collapsed in on itself. There were people inside getting sucked into some kind of vortex. I know you think I'm kidding, but look around. This was a freaking war zone, I'm telling ya."_

The camera pans out, showing the building. All that is left of the facility is a torn-apart shell of a building. It looks like a bomb of sorts has been dropped on the place, resembling the burnt out shells of buildings from old World War II footage from Europe. There are body parts, human limbs littering the grounds. It's a bloody scene worthy of a Tarantino movie. There is no sign of Sandra Windholm, or her staff.

 _"We really have no idea what has happened here, but we will be staying on top of this to bring updates throughout the day tomorrow. This is Ramona Vasquez, reporting live from what I can only describe to be a type of ground zero here in Brooklyn."_

Richard Castle and Kate Beckett simply stare at the television screen, as the next report is broadcast. They don't say a word. Jackson Hunt uses the remote to turn the television off. He stands, brushing himself off. His eyes are sad, and very far away.

"She's dead, isn't she?" Castle asks softly. He's talking, of course, about Dr. Sandra Windholm.

"Yes," is the simple reply that comes from Jackson Hunt.

"Why?" Kate asks.

"Because she turned the transport room on again," he tells them. "When we returned, I activated the kill-switch. If anyone turned it back on again without entering my special identification code, the machine was rigged to widen the transmission field to include eighty yards. Anything within eighty yards in any direction became part of the transmission data. The seven floor below the surface, and the majority of the first floor all were sucked into the transmission."

"Sandra?" Kate asks.

"Yes," Hunt replies. "She just . . . couldn't leave it alone."

They can see the hurt in his eyes, the sadness. He really wanted it to end a different way. In the end, however, Sandra, as he said, just 'couldn't leave it alone."

"She was a hero, son," he tells Castle. "By any and every definition of the word, she was a hero. The life you, Beckett, I . . . all of us . . . the lives we have are a testimony to her brilliance. None of this," he says, waving his hands to include everything they see, "occurs without her."

"She missed her moment," Castle tells him, eyeing his father evenly.

"No, son," he corrects him. "She found her moment. She found her purpose. She just didn't recognize that _that_ was her moment. She kept searching."

"Is that a bad thing?" Kate asks, now wondering if there isn't a veiled reference to her somewhere in there.

"Sometimes it is, Detective," Hunt replies. "Sometimes it is."

He stands, and gazes at his son as if it is the last time he will be seeing him. His smile is genuine as he opens the door and departs.

Castle stares at the door for three, four, five seconds before returning his attention to Kate.

"Wow," she manages. It's more than either can say. She takes his hand again, and her eyes mist as he slowly brings her hand to his lips. Returning her kiss.

"We didn't miss our moment, did we, Rick?" she asks. His eyes are closed, and his is breathing heavily. She thinks he is asleep, but seconds later, he responds.

"Almost," he replies. "But at least we know what is missing."

"What's that?" she asks, confused.

"Alexis needs a little sister. Or brother. I don't care which."

Kate smiles, as he drifts off again, and she releases her grip on his hand. She leans back in her chair, closing her eyes. There is no thought of the past. Only the future. A future that very possibly could include – among other things – a new addition.

.

 _Perhaps you're smiling now_

 _Smiling through this darkness_

 _But all I had to give_

 _Was guilt for dreaming._

\- _David Bowie, from the album Aladdin Sane, 1973_


End file.
